


Make America Gay Again: The Butter Fic

by QueenTheatrics



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Chef Steve, F/M, Love Confessions, M/M, Nurse Bucky, Oblivious Bucky Barnes, Slow Burn, gratuitous use of acronyms, ridiculous meet-cute, this is 21000 words of nonsense and i blame my pals for encouraging it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-11 15:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7059022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenTheatrics/pseuds/QueenTheatrics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Bucky wanted was a breakfast he didn't have to think about in a diner where no one knew him. But then his pancakes came out to him, drowning in butter, and Bucky had had enough. He didn't count on the chef being the most gorgeous man he'd ever seen, though.</p><p>Based on an AU prompt: “I hate butter and you're a chef at a diner who always seems to put way too much on my pancakes"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Steve’s Home-style Independent Eatery, Lounge & Diner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [explodingmrpond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/explodingmrpond/gifts).



> This fic started off as a complete JOKE and somehow grew 21,000 words of legs and I blame my pals for it. I hope they're happy. This is dedicated to those losers: Coral, my angel, for brainstorming the whole thing with me, and Emily, half of the #dynamicduo, Queen of Acronyms, and the gals in the group chat who kept me going through sickness and health (I have a cold). 
> 
> The fic prompt came from this post here: http://main135k.tumblr.com/post/144317994841/au-ideas  
> so credit to that person for doing this to my brain, I guess.
> 
> This fic is COMPLETE and I'll probably be updating once a week/whenever takes my fancy.
> 
> I hope other people find this funny cause I think it's hilarious.

It all starts, this whole strange mess of a situation, because of a plate of goddamn pancakes. All Bucky had wanted was to be out of the biting January cold, eating a breakfast he didn't have to think about in a diner where no one knew him, because being a children’s nurse means that everyone and their mum really does recognise him wherever he goes. What he got instead was a plate stacked high with pancakes and abso-fucking-lutely _drowning_ in butter.   
Bucky hates butter. And, okay, he's not stupid, objectively he knows it's ridiculous because butter is in and on so many things, but he has his reasons. If nothing else, he has a brand new metal arm that’s even more of a bitch to clean than the prosthetic he had before, and butter is just sticky and smelly and gross. And if it gets between the plates and he doesn't clean it straight away, the smell... Lingers.   
So Bucky hates butter. That isn't going to change any time soon, but he puts his annoyance aside for today, because the pancakes really are delicious, and he can't help the deep throaty groan that escapes as he takes a bite. Goddamn, he's never had food so good he's been unable to contain himself. _My compliments to the chef,_ he thinks, tucking in.   
He has a remarkably pleasant meal—he fields incomprehensible texts from his sister, who is still drunk from the previous night's college mixer, and adds another picture drawn by a patient to the ever growing file he always carries to work with him. When he opens the folder, he notices his sticker collection is dwindling rapidly, so he makes a note to buy some more. The dinosaur ones have been especially popular. During his meal, Clint, the server, is great conversation, and talks to him like he's known him for years, and Bucky finds himself enjoying his company immensely, despite, or maybe because of, Clint's garish purple outfit and sarcastic humour. When he finishes, he asks Clint to tell the chef he enjoyed his meal, and scrapes his chair back to stand. Clint raises an eyebrow but says nothing, and backs towards the kitchen with a smirk.   
As Bucky leaves the diner, he has a smile on his face, because, despite the butter, he's just found the world's greatest pancakes. Besides, it's not like the butter thing is going to happen again. 

It happens again. And again. And _again_.

When it happens for a fifth time, Bucky has had just about enough. Ignoring Clint’s protests (which, yeah, he kind of feels bad about, because he and Clint have been building up a nice rapport over the last few weeks), he marches his way over to the kitchen and pushes open the door, plate in hand.  
“Who made these _GODDAMN_ PANCAKES?” he yells. “I have something to say about BUTTER!”  
A short redhead in the corner looks at him and smirks, and then gestures to Clint, who Bucky has just noticed is at his shoulder, to come over to her. Clint makes a face at her, and Bucky watches them have a conversation in rapid sign language.   
“That would be me,” A deep voice says, and Bucky’s breath actually catches in his throat when he turns around because the most attractive man he's ever seen in his life is standing there with an easy, open smile on his face. Bucky is lost for words. The man in front of him could only be described as a _specimen_ , with broad shoulders leading down to a narrow waist, around which a grubby white apron is tied. He’s also _familiar_ , like someone from a half-remembered dream or a distant memory. He’s still smiling, but his eyebrows are at his hairline now, like he’s not sure what to make of Bucky. Bucky shakes his head. He’s sure he must look like an idiot, standing in the middle of the kitchen, mouth gaping, with a plate of pancakes held in his metal hand, which, yeah, the chef's eyes have just dropped to, and widened almost imperceptibly. Great.   
“Uh, yeah, hi…” He says, scrubbing his free hand over his chin, which is covered in light stubble. He should have shaved before coming in, but he didn’t know he was going to be accidentally yelling at the hottest man in the world when he got up this morning.  
“You had something to say about butter, sir?” The man says. He’s looking at Bucky like he might burst out laughing at any moment, but not in a cruel way. Bucky thinks this man is fantastic.   
“What?” Bucky stutters, and then his eyes fall to the plate of butter covered pancakes in his left hand. _Shit,_ he thinks. _How can I tell this man I hate his food?_ So Bucky, being a clever and rational individual, takes the path of least resistance, AKA, the one most likely to get him laid. “Yeah, I love it? I love butter. Bring on the butter!” He says, far too enthusiastically, and winces. The chef looks taken aback, and from the corner of his eye Bucky can see Clint and the other chef—Natasha, he hears Clint call her—in absolute hysterics watching them, which he steadfastly ignores.  
“I’ll get you another side plate then, shall I?” The chef says, raising an eyebrow. Bucky can only nod as the man turns away from him to grab a plate from a shelf, giving him a view of the other side of this gorgeous, gorgeous man. Bucky looks, at length. Clint and Natasha clear their throats, loudly and not at all subtly, and he can only glare at them across the room. “There you go,” the chef suddenly says, and Bucky looks back at him. In his hand is a small side plate, filled with several pats of butter. Bucky feels kind of sick at the sight of it, but he plasters on a smile, takes the plate and thanks the man profusely.  
“I’ll just, uh, head back then,” he says, gruffly, drawing his eyes down the man’s body, partially trying to figure out where he's seen him before, but mostly just checking him out. All attempts at subtlety have gone out of the window, and spots of colour appear high on the chef’s cheeks as his face flushes.   
“I’m Steve,” he blurts out before Bucky turns away. “I’m the one who make the pancakes.” He steps forward, hand outstretched to shake, and then, when he realises Bucky has plates in both hands, sort of aborts his mission and just grabs his opposite shoulder instead. Clint and Natasha are having a _field day_ in the corner behind him. Bucky is sure that thump he just heard was Natasha falling off the counter, trying to stifle her laughter.  
“Bucky,” he replies, smiling. “I’m the one who eats them.”  
With that, Bucky gives a nod to Steve, shakes his head disapprovingly in the direction of Clint and Natasha, and heads back out to the main diner to eat his pancakes. They’re cold by now, and the butter has kind of congealed on the plate, but they’ve never tasted as good, and he can’t bring himself to deny that it’s to do with the company rather than the recipe.

—

Bucky loves his job. He loves the children, he loves the routine, he loves seeing little ones get better and knowing he played a part in that. When Bucky isn’t working, he’s sleeping, and when he isn’t sleeping he’s showering, drinking coffee, or seeing if he can pick up an extra shift here and there. Bucky’s life is his work, and that’s okay, but there’s no denying that having your job kind of consume your life isn’t exactly conducive to creating and maintaining friendships. As a result, he only really has one proper friend, and that’s his sister, and there’s enough of an age gap between them for her to think he’s funny but pretty lame. Plus, why would she hang out with her loser older brother when she has other teenage girl friends and all of New York City at her disposal?   
So Bucky doesn’t really have anyone to hang out with, and he’s okay with that. They’re always adding new stuff to Netflix, and he’s always too tired after work to see people, and he’s not that easy to get along with, anyway. And if all of that sounds like one big excuse for being lonely, that must be caffeine withdrawal talking.

—

The diner, which is enigmatically named ’S.H.I.E.L.D.’ is a quaint, homely little restaurant tucked between a post office and a flower shop. In nearly every way, it is like a traditional old fashioned diner, with gingham tablecloths and mismatching cutlery, and a welcoming staff who greet you at the door like old friends. It is owned by Steve and his friend Peggy, who is the chef at the weekends, and has been in their hands for going on six years now. The whole staff have been with the restaurant since the start, barring the two teenage servers, and it’s like one big family. The large windows look out onto the quiet street and the sunlight streams in, giving the whole place a nostalgic sepia glow. Bucky falls in love with the place the minute he walks in, because it feels like he's always known this place, like he's just forgotten it and has been waiting to rediscover it. He ends up coming back to the diner at least twice a week for breakfast. His shift patterns at the hospital tend to fall roughly on the same days every week, so he becomes what some might call a “regular” at the diner. He orders the same thing every time, and soon Clint just says “The usual?” as he shows him to a table, and then goes to the kitchen and yells “Steve, Bucky’s here!” through the door. Sometimes Clint, the little shit, pretends he’s turned his hearing aids off and sends Bucky to place his order in the kitchen himself. A few minutes later, Steve will personally bring his pancakes to Bucky’s table, always freshly cooked, and always drenched in butter. 

Eventually Steve starts timing his breaks so that he can sit with Bucky, and they talk about anything and everything that comes to their minds. Bucky finally finds out the story behind the name--  
 _(“The name, Steve, you gotta—“  
“Steve’s Home-style Independent Eatery, Lounge & Diner?”  
“What the hell is that, pal?”  
“I lost a bet with Peggy.”)_  
\--and thinks it's simultaneously the best and stupidest thing he's ever heard. He finds out that Steve grew up three blocks away from him in Brooklyn (freaky), that Steve is an artist both with pencils and with food (hot), and that Steve used to be 5’4” and skinny as a beanpole before puberty hit (unbelievable, also adorable). Steve also has three cats, which Bucky can’t understand because everyone knows that dogs are far superior. Steve asks him questions about his parents (dead, 10 years ago, car accident) and what it was like becoming guardian at age eighteen for his younger sister, Rebecca, who is now at NYU studying graphic design. They're pretty heavy topics, and Bucky almost doesn't answer, but something in Steve's open, honest face just makes him comfortable enough to share. Steve's favourite thing to ask about is his brief, turbulent career on his high school lacrosse team, where he was a beast on the field even with one prosthetic arm. They called him the 'Winter Soldier', because the opposing teams would be frozen with fear when he came barrelling through. Steve finds this utterly hysterical, and names a dessert on the menu after him (The Winter Soldier, which is chocolate chip ice cream and raspberry sauce dusted with edible silver stars and sprinkles, is soon the second most popular thing on the menu). Once, Bucky is absentmindedly doodling on a menu—he scribbles out the restaurant name and replaces it with ‘Steve’s Hairy Infected Ear-Lobe Disease’ and Steve looks like he might have an aneurysm from trying not to laugh. It becomes a ‘thing’, as much as Steve tries not to encourage it. Diners from out of town will ask what S.H.I.E.L.D. stands for and before the actual owner can answer, Bucky will swoop in with, ‘Steves Horribly Infectious Ego Lands Dick’ or ‘Steve’s House Incubates Extreme Lace Doilies’, and Steve will have to assure them that, no, that’s not what he decided to name his restaurant, and, no, he isn’t planning to change it. 

Eventually, after a few weeks of lunches and breakfasts, Steve asks him, quietly and nervously, about his arm, and Bucky visibly clams up. Steve, god bless him, backtracks immediately and Bucky feels a wave of gratitude that he doesn’t force the subject, that he doesn’t _push_ , because while he’s never been ashamed of his arm (his own personal issues with self esteem notwithstanding), it’s a subject he doesn’t like to talk about. Having the glinting metal there is reminder enough without reliving the whole ordeal, which still gives Bucky nightmares, still makes him jerk awake in the claustrophobic darkness drenched in cold sweat, with circling one-word thoughts of trapped, cold, help, no. Steve sees Bucky's eyes change, and quickly asks about the kids Bucky works with at the hospital, and that’s a topic he could talk about all day. Bucky’s beginning to suspect that if he wanted to talk about it all day, Steve wouldn’t mind in the slightest, and the way he sits there, giving Bucky his rapt attention, is sweet and domestic in a way Bucky doesn’t really know how to process. But as much as his mind is wrapping itself in circles, the rest of him tells him not to protest, because his mornings with Steve (which are rapidly becoming more and more frequent—Bucky might need to take out a second mortgage just to afford the hundreds of pancakes he’s buying) are, without a doubt, the best part of his days.

He starts coming in some evenings for dinner, because he figures he’d rather spend his money on a home cooked meal than at one of the dodgy takeaways that surround his flat. The diner is on his way home from work, so it really just makes sense to pop in after his shift, see everyone and have a decent meal that’s not 50% grease—at least, that’s how how justifies it to himself, and Clint, and Steve, every time they see him in again. He finally meets Peggy, the weekend chef, who has an air of authority about her that almost makes Bucky want to call her ma’am and tip his hat to her. Steve is always working, because Steve doesn’t seem to know the meaning of time off, and sometimes, if it’s a busy night, he’ll let Bucky eat in the kitchen rather than the crowded restaurant. He tries out new recipes on him—at least half of the plates he puts in front of Bucky are butter based, which makes Bucky’s stomach turn, but he digs in anyway. Steve is always happy to see Bucky, usually ‘forgets’ to charge him for the food, and never, ever turns him away. Bucky tries to pay one night, and when Steve tells him not to worry about it, he asks him why he’s being so nice. Steve brushes it off with a casual wave of the hand.  
“Hey, what’s the use in owning the place if I can’t give my friends free food?” He says, and Bucky feels something warm and unexpected blossom in his chest, despite all his brain’s protesting that he needs to get out, leave, right now before it can go any further. He squashes the feeling with considerable effort like a fly, and he and Steve smile at each other. There’s a comfortable silence for a minute, until they hear Natasha cough “get a room!” behind them, and the spell is broken.  
Over the next month or so, he continues his quest to vandalise both the diner’s collection of menus _and_ it’s reputation—soon S.H.I.E.L.D. stands for ‘Steve’s Hair Is Evil, Later Disguised’ and he quietly tells a man who comes in that it means ‘Sex House: Indescribable Explosions and Lap Dances’ without realising that the man is an undercover journalist looking for reviews. For weeks afterwards, the horny people who come in are disappointed when they realise S.H.I.E.L.D. is not, in fact, a strip club. Steve almost bans him from the diner for that, but he can’t deny that the article has brought with it a bump in customers.  
“Hungry and horny go hand in hand, Stevie,” Bucky says, and Steve just looks at him weirdly.

That night, Bucky dreams that he’s in bed with Steve, ivory silk sheets covering their naked bodies as Bucky feeds him chocolate covered strawberries. They’re getting strawberry juice everywhere, down their chins, on the sheets, and the covers are soon stained a deep, blossoming red. But then everything shifts, turns on its head, and the stains on the sheets continue to bloom, and it’s not strawberry juice, it’s blood, and then everything goes dark and cold and all he can see are a pair of bright blue eyes shining through the black. He’s shivering so violently his teeth are chattering, and he's lost all feeling from his left shoulder downwards, and he’s _trapped trapped trapped_ …  
He wakes up with a start, and sees the early morning light, milky and grey, coming in through the curtains. There’s no use in trying to sleep again, so he gets up and goes for a run, going faster and longer than he has for ages. He’s sweating, panting like a dog by the time he gets back to his apartment, but his head has stopped screaming at him, the thoughts dulled. For the moment.

That morning, he’s in the diner earlier than usual. When Steve asks, he tell him his favourite little patient is going in for an MRI today, and he’d promised to come in early to sit with her. It’s not a lie, not by a long shot—he did promise to go in, just a half hour early, not three—but it’s an evasion. Coming in at this time—practically as they’re opening—is obscene, even for Bucky, who works the most random shifts he can get. But if Steve suspects anything, he doesn’t let on, so Bucky lets Steve bring him his pancakes and flop down in the seat across from him. He watches Steve watching him eat his food, and doesn’t miss the way the other man’s gaze drops to his lips as the tiniest spot of butter dribbles its way down his chin, and his tongue darts out to catch it. The morning sun is beaming in through the large windows, and it hits the side of Steve’s face, familiar and open, in all the right ways, giving him a sort of warm glow. It’s that moment when Bucky realises that butter is the same colour as Steve’s hair, golden like sunshine, and goddamn, he’d eat nothing but butter for the rest of his life if it meant seeing Steve’s face look at him like that while he did it. As soon as that thought crosses his mind, Bucky kind of chokes, just a little, and as Steve reaches forward to clap him on the back, all Bucky can think is, _I’m screwed_.

Don’t get him wrong, Bucky knows he's a good looking guy. People of both genders have told him, and he’s enjoyed the company of many men and women in his bed over the years. He goes to the gym, keeps himself well groomed, wears clean, stylish clothes when he's not in scrubs, keeps his long dark hair tied up in a neat bun at the back of his head. He doesn’t smell, he’s always considerate on dates, and he’s definitely above average in the sack. But Bucky has nightmares and Bucky has a history, and Bucky hates butter, which is definitely a red flag for some. He’s a mess of psychological issues which run deep in his soul, and the metal arm only scratches the surface of what’s going on inside. On top of that, all of that, Bucky’s got his work, he lives for his work, he’s in love with his work, and any time he’s not at work, he’s with his therapist or getting the goddamned metal arm tinkered with. Thanks to that winning combination, he’s never really had any lasting romances, and in the last few years, dates have been few and far between. He doesn’t dwell on it—or, at least, his therapist tells him not to—and if he’s being honest he’s not quite sure he’d know how to be in a relationship if he wanted to. He isn’t quite ready to admit to himself that he does want to, because although Steve is definitely single and almost definitely into guys, the jury is still out on whether or not he’s into Bucky specifically. And Bucky doesn’t want to ruin the best and most reliable friendship he’s had in years on a crush he isn’t even sure will be reciprocated.

So Bucky spends the next few months pining from afar. Clint and Natasha figure it out, of course, because Clint and Natasha know _everything_ —including his fucking _address_ , somehow, and they show up one evening with beer, popcorn and ’10 Things I Hate About You’ on DVD, and declare that they are forcing him to have a movie night with them.   
“So,” Clint says when they’re seated on the couch, opening the bag of popcorn. The sudden sickly smell of butter hits Bucky’s nose, and he feels his face scrunch up automatically in disgust. “You hate butter.”  
It’s at that moment Bucky realises he’s been goddamn played by a tiny Russian and her smirking fiancé.   
“Shit,” he mutters, running his metal hand through his hair, which is flowing loose from his bun. “How did you—“  
“I’m deaf, I read faces very well.” Clint says, seriously.  
“Also, you came barging into the kitchen yelling about butter.” Natasha giggles. “No one has such a strong reaction to dairy unless they hate it.”  
Bucky sighs, deep and long suffering. He’s been well and truly caught.   
“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Don’t tell Steve. I don’t want him to… not like me.”  
“Cause you want to fuck him.” Natasha says, grinning.  
“‘Someone’s Hiding Interest, Even Love? Damn…’” Clint says, throwing popcorn at his head.  
“Hey, dude, that’s my thing!” Bucky says. He completely ignores Clint and Natasha’s smirks, because they’re rubbish and he hates them both. “Seriously though, don’t tell him.”  
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Clint says, picking up the TV remote control. “It’s your funeral.” With that, he presses play on the DVD and the film starts. Bucky sits uncomfortably sandwiched between them, listening to the two switch between English, Russian and ASL as it takes their fancy. As it is, he only gets about a quarter of the conversation, and he’s thoroughly exhausted by the end of the night. The stress of waiting for them to ask him about his feelings for Steve—and he knows they will, because they take every opportunity to make lewd gestures at him behind his back—has him wound in knots, and he kind of hates the two of them for keeping him hanging like that. His sister tells him his poker face is awful, and that he can’t lie for shit, and he’s beginning to believe her. But all is forgiven when Natasha hugs him at the door as she’s leaving and whispers “Sorry about that, we just had to make sure you were worthy of Steve,” and it’s like she’s peered right into his head and pulled out the one thing that’s keeping him up at night, the constant, soul-crushing fear that he might not be good enough for Steve. But the way Natasha is looking at him, like he's an idiot but one that she sort of approves of, is enough to ease that guilt, just slightly. Natasha approves of him, Natasha likes him, which means that Clint does too, by proxy. She grabs Clint’s hand and pulls him down the street, and when she looks over her shoulder and blows him a kiss, Bucky can’t help but grin back at her.


	2. Steve’s House Isn’t Even Loosely Decorated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang gets drunk, Bucky and Steve have a ~moment~, mixed signals happen and everything is like a bad rom-com.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretend i know anything about the geography of Brooklyn and/or the world (I do not).

A warm night in late June, Steve invites Bucky, Clint and Natasha over to his flat for dinner, and proceeds to get drunker than Bucky has ever seen him (not that Bucky’s seen him drunk that often, he just happens to know a very nice diner with a very good wine selection, and a very generous owner who lets them play in the kitchen after hours). He makes a roast chicken drenched in garlic butter, ‘specially for you, Buck’, and Bucky has to try not to gag at the sight of the yellow butter swimming on the plate. The four of them squeeze together at Steve’s dining table, and it really is a squeeze, because Steve and Bucky are big across the shoulders, and even Clint hasn’t skipped a day at the gym in the last few years. Natasha is the only one who looks remotely comfortable, though she makes sure to jab her sharp elbows into Clint’s side every few minutes, just to annoy him. As they tuck in, Bucky can feel Clint and Natasha’s eyes on him, and he takes the opportunity to flip them the bird when Steve isn’t looking. He has to admit, as much as butter plagues his very existence, when Steve cooks with it, it actually isn’t so bad. The chicken itself is perfectly cooked, the side salad is a welcome compliment, and the wine selection is wonderfully matched. Bucky tells Steve as much, and the chef’s eyes widen as a beaming grin spreads across his whole face.  
Embarrassingly, Bucky’s metal hand chooses that moment to seize up completely, and he struggles to grasp his fork. Once he’s remedied that situation, that leads to Bucky regaling them with a run down of all the ridiculous prosthetics his doctor has had him using over the years, including the model before his current arm which Stark had, for some reason, called the Mark VII, and insisted on painting hot rod red and gold. Steve chimes in after that with a play by play of all the illnesses he had in his childhood—the list is very long and varied. Bucky thinks it’s amazing that Steve survived to adulthood, and a goddamn _miracle_ that he hasn’t had as much as a cold in the last three years.   
After dinner, they take cushions and blankets out onto the fire escape and Natasha pulls out a bottle of Russian vodka, which they take turns swigging from as the sun sets over the city. Steve and Bucky point out the New York sights to Clint and Natasha, who aren’t from the New York. Bucky’s mind, ever overactive, fills with images of his childhood, of his parents, long gone, and Rebecca, so bright and vibrant even as a baby. He can just see her skipping along the street, braids bouncing, singing at the top of her lungs to passersby. He smiles wistfully, and Steve seems to sense it. He nudges his shoulder against Bucky’s to bring him back to earth.They laugh as they find the area they grew up, just a few streets away from each other the whole time. Bucky still can’t believe they never met as children.  
“Are you sure we never met? You look so familiar…” Bucky says, for what he’s sure is about the millionth time. Again, as always, Steve shakes his head.  
“Unless you found yourself in my high school or my childhood bedroom”—no one, especially not Clint and Natasha, misses the way Bucky’s face flushes dark red at that—“Then I’m ‘fraid not, Buck.” Steve replies, shrugging.  
They look back over the skyline, and Bucky spots the playing field behind his high school. He points it out, his metal arm glinting under the moonlight, and tells stories from his brief stint as a high school lacrosse player, and how he spent more time in the penalty box than on the field.   
“I’d just get this look in my eye,” he says, flexing the fingers of his metal hand. “It was like my mind had been completely wiped, like I was on a mission.”  
“Guessin’ you didn’t play for long?” Steve says, smiling.  
“After I knocked out Gabe Jones’ front teeth at practice, they kind of froze me out.” Bucky grins. “It was definitely for the best. I got too tough for my own good.”  
Natasha laughs, loud and throaty in the dusky light. “I don’t think you’re so tough, Barnes.” She leans forward to tap at his metal fingers.  
“Oh, yeah?” He looks at her, amused, and raises his chin just the slightest bit, a challenge. A slow smile spreads across her red lips.  
“I did ballet for twenty years,” she says, with a deadly look in her eyes. “I could take all three of you in a fight, without a problem.”  
“Nat’s main motivation for becoming a chef was the opportunity to use really sharp knives every day,” Clint says, smirking. She shoves him, hard, and he falls on his ass, spilling beer all down his front. He tackles her onto one of the cushions and tickles her, and soon her giggles are reverberating off the metal fire escape. Steve gives Bucky a look and jerks his head toward the building. They leave the others to it and climb back in through the window to the living area/kitchen. Bucky hoists himself up onto the counter, and Steve leans against the fridge, looking at him.  
“We never seem to be outta the kitchen, Stevie,” Bucky grins, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl.   
“That’s cause you’re always havin’ me cook for you,” Steve says. His eyes never leave Bucky’s lips as Bucky bites into the apple. “What’s it with you and butter, anyway?”   
Bucky suddenly swallows the chunk of apple nearly whole, and feels it painfully scrape down his throat. “Butter’s the same colour as your hair,” he blurts out—in his head, he hears ’ _Steve’s Hair Is Eternally Lovely & Damage-free_’, it’s like he's not even trying anymore— and it must have been the alcohol that loosened his tongue but god _damn_ why did he have to say something that stupid? He screws up his face and waits for Steve to laugh at him, but Bucky proves himself to have underestimated his friend once again, because Steve just _blushes_ , a deep scarlet flush making its way down his chest. It’s quite possibly the most attractive thing Bucky has ever seen, and he’s seen Sharon Stone in the flesh.   
“You been thinkin’ about my hair a lot, Buck?” Steve says, low and deep, words slightly slurred, though Bucky can’t tell if it’s due to the alcohol or something else.  
“Been thinkin’ about all of you, Steve,” Bucky replies, his voice rough. Suddenly, without warning, the atmosphere in the room changes. The air seems to heat up, becoming thicker despite the air conditioning whining desperately in the background. Steve pushes off the counter and walks slowly towards the other man, like Bucky is a wild animal that’ll spook if he makes any sudden movements. He reaches Bucky’s legs, which have fallen open where he sits on the counter, and Bucky itches to reach out and touch, can almost feel the ghost of proper sensation tingling in the tips of his metal fingers, instead of just the sparks of feeling from his artificial nerve endings. Just as he’s working up the courage to lift his hands from where they’re frantically gripping the counter edge, a crash comes from behind them, and Steve jumps back about four feet.  
“Clint,” he breathes, glancing over Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky turns and sees Clint lying on the ground by the window, trying not to laugh, one foot still half through the window and one arm grabbing the couch. Natasha sticks her head in from outside, and then climbs into the flat with a lot more grace than her counterpart.  
“Come on, you big lump,” She says, fondly, pulling him to his feet. “Let’s head home, I think we interrupted something.” With a meaningful look at the two of them, she drags her fiancé out of the flat. When silence falls once more—and it takes quite a while to come, because they can hear Clint and Natasha babbling in Russian halfway down the stairs—Bucky looks at Steve, really looks. What he sees isn’t encouraging, because the flush is still there on his chest, but Steve is looking at the ground, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, and there seems to be an invisible barrier separating him from Bucky. In his stomach, Bucky feels a twisting, disheartened thud, and of course he’d mess it up, of course Steve wouldn’t really want him, because why the hell would he? Steve is familiar and honest and kind, and he’s Bucky’s One Good Thing, the one thing Bucky gets to have to himself, and he doesn’t deserve to have Bucky making unwanted advances just because they’re both a bit tipsy. So, Bucky clears his throat.   
“Hey, I should go, too.” He says, and Steve looks up, his hand falling from his neck to reside in his pocket. “Thanks for dinner, Steve. I had a great night.”  
“Yeah, me too.” Steve says, quietly. He walks Bucky to the door and lingers as Bucky pulls his leather jacket on. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”  
“Sure thing, Stevie,” Bucky replies. He walks out of the flat and throws a wave over his shoulder as he heads down the stairs. When he gets to street level, he automatically looks up at the window he knows is Steve’s bedroom and sees a dark silhouette standing behind the curtain. The light turns off a few seconds later, and Bucky walks home in silence.

—

Morning comes before it’s welcome, streaming obnoxiously through the curtains and straight onto Bucky’s hungover form. He hadn’t bothered to change when he got in, choosing instead to crawl under the covers fully clothed. His head aches where he’d been lying on his bun, and he grimaces through the discomfort of pulling it out of his hairband. One of about twelve alarms he’d set is blaring next to his thumping head. He resists the urge to throw the alarm clock across the room, because as tempting as it is, some rational part of him knows he’ll regret it later. He has about forty minutes before he absolutely has to leave, so he prioritises his tasks: coffee first, anything else after.

Bucky takes his coffee black as you can make it and thick like tar. Steve blanched the first time he saw Bucky drink it, wondering aloud how Bucky’s insides weren’t coated like treacle, because of all things, of course Steve would be a damned coffee snob. There’s a french press in the diner, purchased by Steve, mostly for his own personal use, and Bucky takes great delight in getting Steve’s hopes up, perusing the various coffee options before ordering his usual.

When Bucky checks his phone, after his first cup of coffee has been necked in one go, he has three texts—one from his therapist, checking he can still make his appointment, one from his doctor, asking the same, and a picture message from Natasha of Clint bent over the toilet bowl, captioned with just a random assortment of emojis. There’s nothing from Steve ( _‘why would there be?_ ’, the horrible part of Bucky’s mind supplies). Bucky replies to the three messages and then hovers his thumb over Steve’s name in his contact list. It’s too early to phone, and besides, he doesn’t even know what he would say, anyway. He settles for sending a quick text that just says “Thanks again for dinner, B x” and leaves it at that.   
Clint texts him a few minutes later, obviously with trembly fingers, ‘wat happn w/Stebe lasst nite?’ and a little shocked face emoji. Bucky bites his lip and then goes for broke: ‘Steve’s Heart Is Empty, Lacking Desire’, he replies. Clint texts ‘shut th fukc up’ two minutes later, and Bucky makes a face. He throws his phone in amongst his crumpled bedcovers and hops in the shower. He deliberately doesn’t masturbate thinking about Steve’s shoulders, his arms, the way he licked his lips when Bucky picked up that apple last night. Bucky instead thinks about faceless, nameless women with long legs and pale skin. And if those women have hair the colour of butter and a little green in the blue of their eyes, no one needs to know.

—

As much as Bucky loves his job, it can be draining, and he’s glad to have days off here and there. Today, he decides to make the most of the sun before he’s cooped inside for doctor’s appointments, so he walks to his therapist’s office rather than taking the subway. He ends up being a few minutes late, and Dr Foster tuts at him as he hurries into the office.  
“Hey, at least I showed this time,” he shrugs, and doesn’t miss the frown that crosses her face as he takes a seat in her room.  
The session goes well, he thinks, which is more than he can say for most of them. He’s been seeing Dr Foster for about five years now, ever since his therapist since childhood retired. She’s a short young woman, with dark hair pulled back in a long braid, and thick rimmed black glasses—she’s very good, remarkably experienced in spite of her young age. Bucky is honestly glad to have her. He just wishes he could be a more cooperative patient.  
This session, Dr Foster is trying to get him to open up about the dreams he’s been having, ever since he mentioned them in passing last session. But the dreams—the nightmares, really—are about Steve, and they’re intimate, not something he wants to share with anyone, let alone his therapist. So he deflects, and gets grumpy, and almost closes down completely, until Dr Foster says, “What’s really going on here, Bucky?” and he lets out a frustrated huff.  
“I thought he was gonna kiss me last night,” he finally says, and she nods. She never writes anything down in his sessions, instead choosing to sit in her chair, legs crossed and hands clasped at the knee, posture casual and open. Bucky finds it comforting. He once asked her if she did the same with all her patients, or if it was something she did just for him. She just smiled enigmatically and said _which answer would you prefer?_ That was enough of an answer for him, and he hasn’t really thought on it since.  
“And I’m assuming he didn’t?” She replies, carefully. Bucky tangles his fingers in his hair, which is loose from its bun for once, and nods.  
“We got interrupted cause my friend fell through the window,” He says, and then, when the doctor looks alarmed, clarifies, “Into the room from out, not the other way around.”  
“What happened after you were interrupted?”  
“Steve hopped about three feet in the air and then would barely look at me after. Like he was real embarrassed about the whole thing.” Bucky leans his elbows on his knees and drops his head down between his shoulders.   
"And why is this bothering you, James?" She says, leaning forward.   
"Because..." He fists his hand in the hair at the base of his scalp, chewing his lips thoughtfully. "Because I'm not good enough for him," he finally sighs, looking at the floor. "I can't be what he needs, what he wants. I wouldn't know how to be a good boyfriend even if he wanted me to. I'm kind of a hopeless case, and last night I think he realised that."   
The doctor is silent for a moment. Bucky deliberately doesn't look for her, unable to bear the look of pity she probably has on her face, because the fact of the matter is, Bucky is unworthy of Steve, because Steve is pure and wholesome and kind, and Bucky doesn’t sleep more than five hours a night, drinks too much to be healthy, doesn’t have time for anyone in his life. The sad fact is that Bucky is always angry and always frustrated, and that scares him more than anything his nightmares can show him.  
"You know what I see when I look at you, James?" She says, after giving him a minute to stew. He sort of shrugs, a halfhearted gesture only using his undamaged shoulder. “I see a man who doesn’t give up. And that, _that_ is a quality that is admirable in anyone, especially someone who’s been through what you have. Steve doesn’t seem like one to push people away.”  
Bucky has to agree with that, but he still doesn’t look up. From the corner of his eye, he can just see Dr Foster leaning forward to catch his eye.  
“What is the thing we talk about most in these sessions?” She says, and Bucky gives a deep, long-suffering sigh.  
“Communication…” He grumbles, but, he has to admit that something has loosened in his chest. She opens her mouth again but he holds up his metal hand. “Yeah, I know, doc, I’ll talk to him. If it all goes wrong, you’ve only yourself to blame, though.”   
“Of course,” she nods, with a serious expression on her face. Bucky just grins.

Bucky feels lighter as he leaves the therapist office, freer and happier than he had in the morning aftermath of last night. When he leaves the office, he texts his sister just to ask how she is, and sends a selfie of his grin—her reply is a string of curse words that would make even a sailor blush, and Bucky finds himself feeling proud of Rebecca’s expanding vocabulary. He practically skips his way to his doctor's appointment, and even the receptionist notices his lift in mood from the last time he was here. The door to his doctor's office opens just as he's flirting with the receptionist, and Dr Banner calls his name with an amused grin.   
"Mr Stark is here to check up on your arm," the quiet man says as they enter the office, where a flashy man with red tinted glasses is spinning on a desk chair.   
"That's Dr Stark to you." He says, haughtily.   
"I'll never call you Dr Stark," Dr Banner says with a fond smile at his clipboard. Bucky likes seeing his doctors, because Stark and Banner are friends first and foremost, and it comes across in their bedside manner. They've been partnered for years, experimenting with advanced mechanical prostheses for people with large amputations. Bucky, with his arm removed above the shoulder, was the first to receive a Stark original, and is one of the only Stark still attends to himself. The two of them are perfectly synchronised in a way that only comes from years of working in tandem. Bucky has a sneaking suspicion they're sleeping together, too.  
"Arm treating you alright, Barnes?" Stark says, wheeling over to the bed where Bucky is sitting. He pulls a screwdriver from his back pocket, which Bucky notices Dr Banner eye with concern, and begins taking off the plates on his inner forearm.  
"Yeah, it's great, Tony." Bucky says, flexing the fingers as Stark points to them. On his other side, Dr Banner starts taking his heart rate and blood pressure. "It's been doin' this weird spasming thing lately though. Nearly hit a gal in the stomach on the subway the other night.” As if on cue, the arm jerks violently, and Stark has to roll his chair out of the way. “Not exactly good when you’re trying to take a kid’s blood at work.” Bucky says, pointedly.  
Stark nods thoughtfully. “That happens sometimes, in people who are keeping terrible, dark secrets…” He says, darkly, and Bucky looks up at him sharply. Stark just laughs freely, the laugh of a man with too much money and very few worries. “I’m kidding, Barnes. But your reaction is very telling.” Bucky scowls, and rolls his eyes at Dr Banner, who looks like he's at a loss. It’s pretty much his default expression at this point.  
”We’ve been having reports of spasming from some of the other patients," Stark eventually says, screwdriver deep in Bucky's arm. "It's been a fairly easy fix, though none have a prosthetic quite as extensive as yours."   
Dr Banner, as if on cue, runs his fingers over the place where metal meets flesh, checking the skin has taken the graft. Stark closes up Bucky's arm, and continues. "I don't actually have the parts here with me, but I can fly in again next week. Tuesday at four work?"  
Bucky nods, but Dr Banner frowns.   
"You have that charity gala in LA on Tuesday," he says. Stark doesn't look in the least surprised.   
"And you have a pet iguana at home that misses you terribly. Talk to me again about responsibility when Betty is fed." Stark sweeps out of the room at that, and though Dr Banner shakes his head, Bucky doesn't miss the smile on his face as they finish up the checkup and book the next appointment.

When he finally leaves the doctor's there's a mid-afternoon sun blazing overhead. He decides to walk the long way back, intending to grab lunch at the diner. He almost loses his nerve as he gets to the door, nearly turns around and hightails it home to sadly eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches alone in his dark kitchen, but Clint, who is looking rather worse for wear, spots him and waves him in.   
"Hey, man," Clint greets him with a firm clap to the shoulder. He forgets which arm is metal and winces as his palm meets the prosthetic with a dull clang.   
"How you feelin', buddy?" Bucky laughs, walking with Clint to the kitchen. "More importantly, how's Natasha? She drank about half that bottle herself, she must be floored."  
"She's Russian. Shit barely has any effect on her." Clint scowls and rubs his head. "She ran 5k this morning. I threw up in the shower."  
"That's a tough break, pal," Bucky says, not even bothering to hide his grin. Clint can only smile weakly as a family of seven walks into the diner, complete with two kids under ten and a newborn baby, and Bucky gives Clint a sarcastic sort of salute as he heads into the kitchen. "Stevie!" He shouts over the various kitchen sounds. "I'm hungry!"  
He eventually finds Steve on the floor, half his body squeezed into a cupboard, and the floor around him covered in pots and pans of various sizes and shapes.   
"Need a hand there?" Bucky says, and stifles a snort as Steve starts, banging his head off the top of the cupboard.   
"Buck, hey," he says, twisting his body out of the cupboard to sit on the floor. "We missed you at breakfast."  
"Oh, yeah, I had an early doctor's appointment, getting my arm looked at,” Bucky says. Steve nods, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows.   
"Right, uh, good," he says, and then backtracks. "I mean, uh, not good you had to go to the doctor's. Or yeah, good?" Bucky says nothing, instead raises an eyebrow and extends his hand to pull Steve up. The other man accepts, and they find themselves face to face. "When you didn't show at breakfast I thought... You know. You were avoiding us. Cause of last night.”  
“No, no, of course not.” Bucky says, waving a hand. “Can’t keep me away from those pancakes, Steve.”  
Steve sorts of huffs a laugh, and they both stand and look at each other. Bucky had been afraid this would happen, and that’s why he hadn’t wanted to come in, because he knew if they tried to talk about that moment they had last night, everything would be weird. Thankfully, the pair are saved from continuing their conversation by a sudden metallic whirring, as Bucky’s metal arm gives a violent spasm, and thwacks Steve right in the middle of the chest. Steve gives a soft oof and steps back to regain his balance, but steps right into one of the pots littering the floor. Bucky sees it in slow motion as Steve falls back, grabs onto him and pulls him down with him. There’s an almighty clatter as the two of them fall into the pile of pots, and the sound reverberates around the whole kitchen. They can hear Natasha swear loudly in Russian from the other side of the room, partially from the shock and the noise, but mostly just to tell them that they’re idiots. When the metaphorical dust clears, Bucky looks down and sees that he's lying half on Steve, half on the floor, their legs tangled together. The handle of a wok is digging into his back painfully, but other than that, they’re both undamaged.  
“Shit, Steve, we ain’t havin’ much luck today, are we?” Bucky says as he sits up, laughing. Steve can't even talk—he’s doubled over, face red and tears streaming down his face as he roars with laughter. There's a wheeze in his chest as he gulps in lungfuls of air, clapping his hand on Bucky's shoulder.   
"Luck's got nothin' to do with it!" Steve finally says. "You punched me in the chest!"  
"Hey, I told you I was having problems with my arm!"  
“I thought you meant like last night, with the fork!”   
The laughter dies down, but they don’t stop smiling, and eventually Steve gets to his feet, extending a hand to Bucky.  
"Alright, get up.” He says, somewhat gruffly. “I'll make you your goddamn lunch.”  
Conveniently, it just happens to be Steve’s lunch break as he finishes making a burger for Bucky, although Bucky suspects that Steve may be exercising his freedom as owner to take his lunch whenever he chooses. He makes a burger for himself too, and they sit at the back of the kitchen, listening to the sound of Natasha cooking, and beyond that, the hustle and bustle of the diner. It’s comfortable and quiet, and Bucky feels something settle in his chest that must have come loose last night. Eventually Steve pulls out one of the new menu drafts and asks Bucky for his opinion.  
“It’s great,” Bucky says, reaching for a pen. “But you’ve way too much on there. All you need is…” He quickly crosses out everything on the menu and writes ‘ _Sugar, Honey, Iced-tea, Eggs, Lasagne and Doughnuts’_. Steve takes one look at it, scrunches it up into a ball, and throws the paper at Bucky’s head.  
Steve goes back to his burger and gets ketchup on his face, like a goddamn _child,_ and Bucky reaches forward with a napkin to wipe it off.  
“You’re still coming to my birthday party, yeah?” Steve says as Bucky pulls his arm back. His mouth is full of burger. Bucky is pretty sure he should be disgusted by these eating habits, but it’s _Steve_ , so naturally, he lets it slide.  
“Wouldn’t miss it,” He replies, sincerely.  
“It’ll be great.” Steve says, and suddenly is overcome with excitement. “You’ll get to meet Sam!”  
“Of course.” Bucky quickly looks down at his plate so Steve can’t see that his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Can’t wait!”   
It’s not that Bucky hates Sam. Logically, that wouldn’t even make sense, because he’s never met the man. But the thing is, Bucky has been irrationally jealous of Sam ever since Steve first brought him up, because Sam just seems like a cool, collected guy, with witty comebacks and a history vastly more interesting than Bucky’s. Sam is an-ex soldier, currently working down at the VA helping other vets, he can run _almost_ as fast as Steve, and he has a _robot_. Bucky isn’t quite sure where the robot fits in, but he’s pretty sure that flying robot trumps metal arm any way you slice it. Bucky doesn’t want to meet Sam, because he’s pretty sure he’ll really like him, and that’ll only make Steve’s sort of hero worship of the man even more justified. Mostly, Bucky doesn’t want to feel like a third wheel, because he’s only known Steve since January, and Sam’s known Steve for years.

Bucky doesn’t remember much of his dreams that night, except the overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia, of being restricted, of water lapping at his face and cold darkness dragging him _down down down_ into the black.


	3. Steve’s Heart Is Eternally Loving & Deadly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has a birthday, Clint and Natasha throw a party, and I attempt to fit some more characters into an already bloated cast list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all bucky and his friends do in this fic is drink, apparently. I'm sorry i don't know what adults do because all i, an adult, do is watch netflix.

Steve, because he is a walking cliche with incredible shoulders, was born on the 4th of July, and because he has no chill at all, he chooses to _work_ on his birthday. Bucky walks into the diner at 5.30pm, exhausted after his shift, and the place is packed with families, couples, grandparents, and even a biker gang in the corner. All of Brooklyn seems to have turned out to Steve’s diner for the festivities. The banner Bucky brought in yesterday, painted by his dear sister— _‘Steve Hails Independence, Everyone Loves Democracy_ ’—is hanging pride of place on the wall across from the window. He can only imagine what Steve’s face looked like when he saw it. Bucky takes one look around and doesn’t even wait to greet Clint, who is looking like he could use a week off _immediately_ , and instead throws a wave to Darcy and Wanda, the other servers, and heads straight for the kitchen.  
“Happy birthday, Steve!” Bucky shouts. He grabs a spare apron and ties it around his waist. “As an extra birthday present to you, I’m here to help. The place is packed.”  
Steve barely looks up from the plate he’s arranging, but Bucky can see the muted horror crossing the chef’s face. “No, Bucky, you just finished a shift.” He mumbles. Bucky grabs the plate from his hand when he leans back, takes it to the window and presses the bell to let the servers know it’s there. When he walks back to Steve, the man is sort of gaping at him, hands grasping at air where the plate was. Steve looks _exhausted_.  
“And you’re the idiot who decided to work on Independence Day, instead of leaving the diner in the hands of his _extremely capable_ sous-chef.” Bucky says, with very little sympathy. He claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder and turns the chef’s face to look into his eyes. “Seriously, Steve. I’m saying this because I value you as both a person and a friend: You’re an idiot, and Natasha is too good for you.”  
“Thank you, _любовь_!” Natasha shouts from the other side of the kitchen, where she’s simultaneously filling orders and training the new cook, a young kid called Peter.  
“It’s no sin to ask for help,” Bucky says, and at that, Steve swallows and nods.   
“Yeah, okay. You’re probably right.” He takes a step back and scans the kitchen, which is in absolute disarray. A grimace appears on his face at the mess, but he quickly puts it aside and runs a hand through his hair. His eyebrows furrow and the expression Bucky has secretly named ‘Steve Rogers: Top Chef’ goes on. “Okay, can you dish out soup and slice pie? Anything Clint brings that doesn’t really need prep. That should get things going faster.” It’s pretty hot, seeing Steve in charge, in his element. Bucky has to concentrate on actually listening to the words Steve is saying to him, rather than thinking about how strong those metal countertops are, and whether they could cope with the weight of two big guys sitting on them. When he tunes back in, he’s only missed a couple of words, but Steve is looking at him for confirmation. Bucky just nods and says “Sure thing, Stevie,” and that turns out the be the right thing to say, because the panic just melts right off Steve’s face, and he’s able to turn back to his cooking without the horrible tension in his shoulders.

The next few hours pass in a blur of pie and pancakes. Steve is so distracted that he doesn’t even notice Bucky changing the description on the diner twitter page to, ‘ _Super Horny Inhuman Earthlings Love Dining (here)_ ’. He changes the profile picture to an image of an alien eating pie. Steve’ll probably kill him. It’s definitely not the worst way Bucky has ever spent an evening—that particular award goes to the three hours he spent on an abandoned highway, in the rain, in a convertible with the roof stuck on open, accompanied by a guy who had just broken up with him. He tells Steve this story when they’re just washing up, and Steve’s laugh, loud and free, echoes around the kitchen.  
“So what happened?” Steve asks, leaning against the counter when they're done cleaning the surfaces. Bucky comes and stands next to him, jostling him with his shoulder as he leans. The sharp edge of the countertop digs into the backs of his thighs, and he taps the fingers of his metal hand against the steel counter, just to hear the sound it makes.  
“Brock made me walk three miles to the nearest gas station and phone a tow truck while he sat in his car under a tarp.” Bucky says, grinning, and Steve brings a hand up to cover his smile. “I had _one arm_ at the time, Steve.”   
“Oh, my god,” Steve can’t contain himself anymore. He snorts a laugh into his palm and Bucky gives him a shove.   
“Goddamn punk,” Bucky says, but his tone is warm and teasing. Steve nudges him with his elbow, and Bucky looks over at him, sees Steve looking back with a weird expression in his eyes, like he's looking for something and isn’t sure how to find it. Bucky gets that weird flash of recognition again, the strange deja vu he's been getting periodically since he met the man, like the first time he met Steve was actually a reintroduction. But Bucky doesn't know him—believe him, he checked. Looked in yearbooks and on Facebook and even googled the man, but Steve was so sick as a child and busy as an adult that he rarely left the house or the diner, so they wouldn't even have crossed paths in the street. Still, Bucky examines his face like an unsolvable puzzle, and tries not to blink lest he miss a moment. Steve licks his lips, almost unconsciously, and Bucky can’t help the way his eyes dart to the movement. He inhales, suddenly, involuntarily, and feels his heart thumping like a jackhammer in his chest. But just as he's about to do something, anything at all, his metal arm gives a sudden jerk and hits the metal with a deafening clang, so loud that Clint looks in from the other room to make sure everything is alright. They both jump, startled, and give nervous laughs when they realise what they’d been doing.  
They clean up the rest of the room in relative silence, but its not as awkward as it should have been. Bucky makes jokes about some of the terrible dates he's been on, including every single one with Brock, and Steve talks about Peggy, who he very briefly dated before she met Angie, her wife. By the time the kitchen is clean, Natasha is just finishing up with the new recruit. She brings him over to meet Bucky, who looks him up and down with a raised eyebrow.  
“Jesus, kid, you’re young,” he says in greeting, holding out his hand to shake. The kid’s grip is surprisingly strong, and Bucky is impressed. “You even legal to be workin’ in here?”  
“I turned nineteen last month, Mr Barnes,” Peter says. His eyes are wide, curious and searching, and Bucky feels himself under immediate scrutiny from this child.   
“Just Bucky’ll do,” Bucky says, smirking. “I don’t work here, but I’m around a lot. I’m basically Steve’s boss, y’know.”  
At that, Steve promptly cuts in. “Don’t listen to a word he says, Peter. Unless those words are ‘Steve is the best’.”   
Peter looks, wide eyed, between them, and seems to come to some sort of understanding. His face softens, and a smile curves his lips.  
“Sure thing, Mr Rogers. See you tomorrow.” With a salute to the pair of them and a nervous little wave to Natasha, Peter makes his way out of the kitchen. He nearly gets hit in the face with the door as Clint opens it, but with surprisingly quick reflexes, he jumps out of the way just in time. 

After seeing Wanda and Darcy off, Clint, Natasha, Bucky and Steve make their way to the nearest bar, which just happens to be two doors down. The bar is called Odinson’s, and it’s owned and operated by two brothers—a big, blonde smiling one, and a dark haired one who makes you feel like you should check your pockets for your wallet before you go anywhere. The bar has a rustic, Norwegian theme, and in all honestly, could do with a bit of an clean. But the beer is cheap, and the company is good, and the owners know them well enough to know they can handle more than the average customer. Natasha, in particular, is famous among the patrons for the Odinson-Romanoff Shot Competition of late March, which Natasha won without breaking a sweat. Her picture is on the wall: she sits, glassy-eyed, crosslegged on Thor’s back where he’s passed out on the floor. Bucky is at least 80% sure she had a copy of that picture printed on a billboard out of state.   
Tonight, they’re seated in a booth, rather than at the bar. Clint and Natasha are on one side, Steve and Bucky on the other, and they toast to another year passed, and drink to the future. Much to Steve’s embarrassment, they managed to encourage the entire bar into a rousing chorus of Happy Birthday, and Bucky feels something shift in his stomach as Steve blushes scarlet to the roots of his hair. When the last drunken note of the song dies down, Bucky solemnly raises his glasses to the three, and throws it back in one go. As the other three do the same, he looks with fondness at these people he gets to call his friends, people he surely doesn’t deserve to have in his life. Clint has his arm around Natasha, and she is leaning into his side, absentmindedly playing with her engagement ring. Clint offers to get another round in, and drops a kiss into his fiancée’s hair before leaving the booth. She watches him as he walks away with a secretive sort of smile on her face.   
“When I get married, you two will be my co-Maids of Honour, right?” She says, suddenly, reaching forward to grab each of their hands.  
“Yeah, sure, Nat,” Steve says, grinning. “But you’re not getting married any time soon. You and Clint have been engaged for, like, five years!”  
“We’re just waiting for the last of the engagement gifts to dry up. Clint has a big family,” She says, waving a hand. “As soon as that happens, you bet we’ll be straight to the altar.” At that moment, Clint arrives back with the drinks and asks what they’re talking about. “I’m just telling them how we’re milking your family for presents before we get married.” Natasha says, and Clint nods.  
“Yeah, they’re weird as shit, but they give great gifts.” He shrugs, and raises his glass. “To family,” He says. “Whether they’re blood, or chefs you work with, or nurses you can’t seem to keep away from your restaurant.”  
They all say cheers and clink their glasses together, and Bucky smiles behind his drink, feeling like he’s home.

When he gets home later that night, he's more than a little tipsy. He and Steve had walked together from the bar, with Bucky’s arm slung over Steve’s shoulders. Bucky can still smell him, that unique Steve scent, which is made up of something undetectable, like pastry and laughter and righteousness. He’s all around him, on his jacket, in his hair, in the crook of his neck, and Bucky suddenly feels an overwhelming spike of lust course through him. He sheds his clothes as he walks through his small flat, leaving a trail on his way to the shower. He knows that he’ll curse past Bucky in the morning, but current Bucky can think of nothing else except getting under the water, and doesn’t have a thought in his head for the concerns of future Bucky. The shower is cold when he first turns it on, but he climbs in anyway, pulling his hair out of the hair tie and shoving his head under the stream. The cold water feels good on his skin, and even better as it starts to heat up, the spray kneading his aching muscles. He deliberately doesn't think as he shampoos his hair, and it’s only when the last of the suds have washed down the drain that he turns into the hot spray and runs a hand down his chest, the hard muscles of his stomach, all the way down between his legs. His fingers close around his cock and it’s like sweet relief, an ease to the aching he’s been feeling since he entered that bar with Steve hot on his heels. He lets himself imagine things, situations he’s sure he’ll never get to see in real life: Steve spread eagled on his bed, that gorgeous red flush making its way steadily down his smooth chest; Steve on his knees, pretty lips wrapped around Bucky’s cock; Steve in the shower with him, standing close, fisting both of their cocks together in his big hand, forehead pressed against Bucky’s and quick little breaths panting into his mouth. A sudden wave of desire makes his legs weak, and he braces himself on the wall of the shower, forehead resting against the cool tile and teeth biting into his wrist to stifle his moans. He speeds his hand up, running his thumb over the head on every second stroke, and he’s not gentle with himself, likes the friction just on the rough side. He allows his mind to wander as he feels the familiar pangs in his stomach that tell him he's about to come, and with the final image of Steve’s large cock pushing inside him filling his mind, he sinks his teeth into his wrist and comes all over the wall with a groan.  
Feeling spent, he quickly cleans himself and the shower up and shuts the water off, before falling boneless into the bed, still damp and naked from the shower. His bed has never felt so comfortable. He knows, somewhere deep inside, that he should feel guilty for what he just did, for thinking about Steve, his _friend_ , like that, but that’s a problem for future Bucky to deal with. Current Bucky is content to just bury his face in the pillow and fall into a dreamless sleep.

—

Steve’s 4th of July birthday party is not being held in Steve’s own apartment, or on the 4th of July. It’s being planned by Sam and Natasha, who are close friends, and held at Clint and Natasha’s house, which isn’t all that fancy, but does have _two_ bathrooms and an upstairs, which is more than can be said for Steve’s. Bucky comes straight from work to help set up, and walks into the living room to find Steve, Sam, Clint and Natasha already drinking on the couches. Steve’s cheeks are red, and Bucky can see empty wine bottles on the table. Natasha is the only one who looks unaffected. Clint is basically sleeping on the armchair, with his fiancee curled up in his lap, smiling mischievously at him.  
“Bucky!” Steve exclaims, and stands, tipping slightly to one side. “I wondered when you’d arrive!”  
“I did tell you when my shift ended, loser,” Bucky replies, accepting Steve’s one armed hug. He pushes his present into Steve’s hands and tries to conceal his nerves. Steve looks positively ecstatic, but stops halfway through ripping the paper off and frowns at his friend.   
“I told you not to get me anything!” He says, feigning annoyance.  
“Since when do I listen to anything you say, Stevie?” Bucky replies, ruffling Steve’s hair. Steve scowls at him, but stops short when he pulls the paper off the gift. Bucky rubs the back of his neck and looks at the floor, scuffing his shoe along the hardwood.  
The present isn’t much—contrary to what the folks at the diner might think, Bucky isn’t made of money. It’s just a simple wooden box, monogrammed with Steve’s initials, but it’s been beautifully crafted, with shiny gold hinges and a bevelled edge, and a deep brown gloss over the top. Inside is a brand new set of paintbrushes, all finished with the same monogram.  
“It’s not—“ He stutters, embarrassed. “I mean, Rebecca helped, she did the monograms and told me what brushes to get and—“  
“Buck,” Steve breathes, and then pulls him into a crushing hug. “Thank you.” He pulls back and looks Bucky directly in the eye. “I really, really love it.”  
Bucky flushes and looks away again, but he accepts the thanks with a nod and a small smile. The moment is broken by the sound of someone clearing their throat, and Steve turns, as if he’d genuinely forgotten that there were other people in the room. Behind Steve, Sam is standing with his arms folded and an expression on his face that says, “forgetting something?”.   
“Sorry, Sam!” Steve says, in a voice that Bucky is pretty sure isn’t sorry at all. “This is Bucky. Buck, this is Sam.”  
“Nice to meet you,” Bucky says, politely, even though it’s certainly _not_ (that’s a lie—Sam is a perfectly pleasant person and Bucky knows this, he’s just trying to tame his jealousy).   
“Dude,” Sam holds his hand out and Bucky shakes it. Sam’s handshake his firm and his hand is warm. Bucky can feel the sensation seeping into his metal fingers. “I hope you don’t mind me saying, but that arm is _dope_.”  
Bucky is momentarily lost for words, but when he regains his footing, a grin spreads across his face. Very few people have ever actually commented on his arm outright, and no one has ever complimented it. It’s a weird sort of feeling, because as much as he appreciates everything the arm does for him, its also a reminder of everything that happened to get him to where he was. But Sam likes his arm. Sam thinks it’s cool. And Sam would know, because Sam himself is undeniably, unbelievably _cool_.  
So, yeah, Bucky has to admit that he kind of likes Sam.

Soon enough, the party is in full swing. The house, decorated head to toe with an obnoxious Independence Day theme which Bucky had tried and failed to veto, is filled with people of all ages, shapes and sizes. Bucky loses his own friends several times over the course of the evening, catching up with them at the buffet table or sandwiched in between giant hoards of people. For someone who never seems to leave the restaurant, Steve appears to have a surprisingly large group of friends.   
“Most of them are _my_ friends,” Natasha says by way of explanation when he finds her. She’s loitering—Bucky would call it _hiding_ , but she would smack him if he did—in a corner, cradling her drink.  
“Your friends?” Bucky says, and though he doesn’t mean to sound incredulous, that’s kind of how it comes out. Natasha raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow at him and his blood runs cold.  
“Yes, Barnes. My friends,” She says, taking a sip from her wine glass. Her scarlet lipstick leaves a slight imprint on the glass. “I’m in a book group.”  
Bucky inhales most of his drink. Some of it comes out through his nose.

Bucky’s evening is a whirlwind of introductions, most of which he knows he won’t remember. Every time he introduces himself, there’s a flash of understanding in the person’s eyes, and then a pause, followed by, “So, you’re Bucky? Steve’s told us a lot about you,” and there’s always meaning in that, every single time, but Bucky hasn’t picked up what he’s meant to be hearing yet. He’s trying to find Steve, because maybe Steve can make some sense of all the weird looks he’s getting—and it isn’t the arm like it usually is, because Bucky is wearing a long sleeved shirt and a glove to hide it. He’s not ashamed of the arm, but he’s learned to cover it for places where he’ll be meeting new people, especially drunk ones, because it gets draining having to say, ‘yes, I have a fake arm, yes, I lost it when I was a kid, yes, I remember every moment, yes, it was horrible’ and watch people with dangerously high blood alcohol levels try to drum up an appropriate level of sympathy. Usually, they fail miserably and move onto asking him if it does any tricks, which is just ridiculously insensitive, and also embarrassing to have to explain that it doesn’t do anything except play Funkytown by Lipps Inc every time he gets on the subway.   
Eventually, after explaining to a girl with glassy eyes that he definitely isn’t the President’s son, he just _looks_ like him, he finds Steve at the end of the garden, sitting on a deck chair with Sam in the chair next to him, and a beer in hand. He’s looking up into the night, where the stars are smeared like paint across the dark backdrop of the sky. It looks like something Steve would paint, sort of abstract and entirely beautiful. Bucky looks at Steve looking at the sky, chin pointed upwards and a lazy smile on his face as he points out to Sam the constellations. Bucky’s close enough to hear ‘the big dipper’, and he’s pretty sure that’s the only constellation Steve knows, so he steps forward to save him. Sam looks up at Bucky suddenly, before Steve notices he’s there, and Bucky sees something almost territorial in Sam’s eyes. Sam leans over to whisper something in Steve’s ear, keeping his gaze on Bucky the whole time. There’s something intimate about the way they interact, and Bucky can’t quite put his finger on it until he sees Natasha murmuring in Clint’s ear just by the door, and he thinks _oh_. So that’s why Steve hadn’t wanted to kiss him that night in his apartment, that’s why he always pulled back, that’s why he lights up when he gets a text in from the other man. Because Bucky missed his chance, or maybe he never had one in the first place.

—

Bucky tries to distance himself a bit in the weeks following Steve’s birthday. Now that he knows what he knows, and is getting along well with Sam (or as well as he can get along with Sam, who still refuses to move his seat up when they’re in the car together), he doesn’t want to do anything to jeopardise his friendship with either him or Steve. So he buries his feelings way down deep and tries to let them go. Sometimes Sam looks at him a bit funny when Bucky talks to him, when he says things like “you and Steve should go see this movie,” or “have you and Steve tried this restaurant?” and Bucky thinks Sam might have figured it out, which makes him feel a little bit ill, if he’s being honest. Rebecca, when he talks to her about it, rolls her eyes so hard he worries she might lose them inside her head, and tells him she hopes she never gets old like him because his love life is depressing. He gives up on soliciting advice from her, and decides she is a lost cause. He tries to ask Clint about it in the diner the next day, but Clint pretends his hearing aids are turned off again and then responds to an imaginary shout from Natasha in the kitchen. Bucky shouts, “You’re an asshole!” after him (much to the horror of an elderly couple sitting near him), to which Clint responds by flipping him the bird. After that, the only person he can ask is the one person he fears the most. He corners Natasha in the kitchen when Steve is out on the floor being complimented by a grateful diner.  
“Does Sam know about my… thing for Steve?” He says, quickly. She gives him a disgruntled look and continues to chop things with deadly efficiency.  
“I don’t know, Bucky,” She says, sounding annoyed. “We usually just talk about running and tell Steve he’s old.”  
“He’s only three years older than you,” Bucky points out, and Natasha shrugs. “Look, I think Sam knows about it, and I don’t want to cause any problems in their relationship.”  
There’s a moment of silence where Natasha stands perfectly still, looking at him with a curious expression on her face. Something passes across her features and she seems to make a decision.  
“Their relationship…” she says, slowly, turning back to her cooking. “I think it is Steve you should be talking to, not me.”   
When Bucky says nothing, just stares at her with sad, serious eyes, Natasha launches into a curse riddled rant in Russian, and he can just pick out a few choice swear words and a sentence he's sure contains the words “men” and “idiots”. (He’s picked up a few Russian phrases from hanging out with Clint and Natasha, and a few random ones he’s not sure where he got them. He knows a couple of random numbers and words like “freight car” and “homecoming”, but can’t say hello or goodbye. Natasha thinks he’s hopeless.) She ushers him out of the kitchen with instructions to talk to Steve, and Bucky feels quite sorry for her, because he is absolutely, positively _not_ going to do that. 

Bucky, that week, has several terrible days at work in a row. He loses patients, he gets yelled at by patients, he argues with his boss, but as hard as the days are, the nights are so much worse. He’s woken every few hours with dreams, dreams of white-hot pain and hears, just out of reach, just far enough away that he can’t pick up the words, the soft murmur of a familiar voice, and above that, the shouts and cries of strangers right in his ear.


	4. Steve’s History Involves Engulfing Love & Defeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding, a romance, a revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last chapter before the epilogue!!!!! i hope you enjoy ~

Clint and Natasha get the Final Engagement Gift™ on a Sunday, and their wedding is promptly booked for the following Saturday. There is no pomp or circumstance about it—as Natasha says, they want it over with quickly so they can start receiving wedding gifts. Clint puts his arm around her and declares her to be a hopeless romantic. She steps on his toe. The plan for the day is as follows: get married at the city clerk’s office, dinner at the diner, drink at Odinson’s until the sun comes up. Bucky isn’t actually surprised at all—Natasha isn’t one for being in the spotlight, and Clint, with his hearing aids, doesn’t particularly like loud and crowded parties. Besides, the number of people they actually want to invite would fit comfortably into a small family car.

The day before the wedding, Natasha forces Bucky along to shop for wedding dresses after his shift. She meets him at the hospital, grabs his hand and literally _drags_ him along the street to the nearest clothes shop. They wander about, Natasha hanging her various options off of Bucky’s metal arm, which he can’t really bring himself to disapprove of, and eventually make their way to the dressing room. Bucky is unceremoniously pushed into a seat, and forced to sit through Natasha trying on dress after dress—he says forced, even though he’s actually having a great time. Natasha is hilarious, and gives terribly honest opinions about each dress while definitely in earshot of the sales clerks, and she seems absolutely delighted when they start scowling at her. He takes this rare opportunity to find out more about Natasha, because as long as he’s known her, he’s been told very little. He knows she moved from Russia when she was twelve, met Clint when she was fifteen, met Steve when she was nineteen, and that she speaks four languages, though she won't tell him what the fourth one is. In seven months, that’s as much as she’s told him about her history.   
Over the next hour, he manages to coax the following out of his friend: she likes Project Runway, and she hates dress shopping. Meanwhile, she’s scolded him for not yet talking to Steve about his embarrassing feelings, managed to get him to tell her his entire family history, a play by play of his shift at work that day and his sister’s latest exam results. In another life, she would have made a fantastic spy. He tells her as much, and she smiles enigmatically.  
Eventually, after another forty minutes, she finds the dress. Bucky knows she’s found it because she comes out of the changing room silent, a nervous look on her face. Bucky can only nod his approval, because Natasha looks radiant, graceful and fluid like a dancer, somehow different and yet undeniably Nat. The dress itself is ivory, the bodice lightly dusted with tiny glittering gems. The tulle skirt ends mid calf and swings softly as she moves. With her red hair curling around her bare shoulders, she looks otherworldly.  
“Wow, Nat,” Bucky says, mouth open. “Clint’ll probably faint when he sees you.”  
“That’s the dream,” She replies, and Bucky can hear she’s slightly breathless, with a slight blush high on her cheeks. She looks so happy, and he can feel himself welling up. “Don’t you cry now,” She says, kneeling in front of him and placing her hand gently on his cheek. “Save it for Saturday. I made a bet with Clint that you would cry, and I can’t start our marriage off by losing.”  
Bucky snorts at that, and soon the two of them are laughing. They’re promptly shushed by the salesperson standing at the entrance to the fitting room. Natasha swears at her in Russian, and then heads back into the changing room to step out of the dress. 

After Natasha has purchased the dress, all the while smiling sweetly at the sales clerk, who is red in the face, she and Bucky head back to Steve’s apartment for dinner. Clint and Sam are already there, making preparations for the rest of the night. Clint and Natasha chose to forgo the traditional bachelor and bachelorette parties in favour of having a night of good food, good company and old-timey board games in Steve’s dining room. Steve goes positively overboard with the spread, making about eight different starters alone which he brings though on a giant tray with instructions to ‘help themselves’, with a side plate of butter just for Bucky. By the time they’ve reached dessert, they’re all stuffed to bursting, and have to take a break before breaking out the Monopoly. The game goes on for hours, and very nearly ends in tears and/or a murder about eight times, but by the time they’ve reached the end, Natasha has won by a landslide, to no one’s surprise.   
“You couldn’t even let me win?” Clint pouts as they tidy up the cards. “You’re supposed to be marrying me, Nat. Complete love and devotion.” Natasha just rolls her eyes and shoves the little dog figure down the neck of his t-shirt.

At the end of the night, Clint and Natasha beg off early, mostly so they don’t have to tidy up the mess they’ve all made. Sam tidies up the game and brings the plates through to the kitchen, and then heads out as well, leaving Bucky and Steve alone in the dark flat. They wash the dishes together quietly, and it’s comfortable and domestic and makes Bucky’s heart hurt a little. Steve seems to be chewing his lips, nervously working up to something, and eventually he takes a deep breath and puts the plate he’s scrubbing to the side.  
“Hey, Buck,’ he says, quietly. “Can I ask you something?”  
Bucky is sure that this is it, that Steve is about to tell him about Sam or ask him why he’s been so weird, or even, if the world is really trying to screw him over, ask him about the feelings he's been so desperately trying to hide. But Steve doesn’t do any of that. He turns to Bucky, one hand still hanging over the sink in its yellow rubber glove, and says, with a small smile on his face, “Will you come with me to the wedding? As my date?”.  
Bucky looks around the room, and then looks back at Steve, eyes narrowed.  
“What about Sam?”   
Steve’s face scrunches up in confusion, and Bucky is beginning to get the feeling that he might have got something very wrong. “What about him?”  
“Won’t you two be, y’know. Goin’ together?”  
Steve shakes his head, frowning. Bucky’s got it _very_ wrong. “…Why would we be?”  
“You’re a thing, aren’t you?” He says, and Steve cracks up laughing, but quickly sobers himself when he sees Bucky’s stony face. He puts a bubble covered hand on Bucky’s shoulder and looks into his eyes, a smirk creasing his face.  
“Nah, see, there’s already one idiot I’m interested in, but he don’t really have much sense.” He says, and Bucky’s heart fills with light. “You might know him.” Steve continues, moving closer. “He’s kind, funny, works with kids, easy on the eyes too, that’s a bonus. Always botherin’ me, gettin’ me to make him food. Oh, and he’s got a metal arm, too. Ring a bell?”  
Bucky doesn’t say anything, _can’t_ say anything because he’s too overwhelmed to think. All he can do is look at Steve, bottom lip caught between his teeth, eyes wide and round. Steve suddenly pulls back and the smile falls from his face.  
“Oh god, have I read this wrong?” He says, quickly. “Buck, I’m sorr—“  
“No, no!” Bucky cuts in, stepping forward. “You haven’t, god. You haven’t read it wrong, Steve, _jesus_. If you only knew how long…”  
“Why didn’t you say somethin’?” Steve says. He’s so close now, so big and warm in Bucky’s space, and Bucky never wants to be anywhere but right here. He looks up into Steve’s face, and the chef’s got a smile on his face, eyebrows raised, and it’s so like his expression when the two of them first met, it feels like Bucky’s been punched in the chest.  
“Why didn’t you?” He says, and it comes out kind of strangled. Steve takes off the rubber gloves and reaches forward, hooking his fingers into Bucky’s belt loops.  
“Well, I was gonna, but every time I tried you totally froze up. And then after my birthday you pulled back, and I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. Until Sam yelled at me to get my ass in gear.”  
Bucky lets out a huff of breath and drops his gaze to his feet. “He’s a very wise man, that Sam.”  
“I’ll tell him you said that.” Steve says. “It was torture, Buck. Seeing you every day in my diner is great; not getting to tell you how I felt?” There’s a beat of silence, and then Steve, with a shit-eating grin on his face, says, “Steve’s Hugely Intense Envy, Less Delightful.”  
“You fucking _didn’t._ ” Bucky says, and Steve throws his head back and laughs.  
“So, is this the moment where I give you a piece of paper that says ‘do you like me, check yes or no?’” He says. “Or can I just kiss you and call it done?”  
Bucky looks up and nods, and then Steve is right there, right in front of him, looking at Bucky like he’s the only person in the world, and Bucky swears his heart skips a beat in his chest. They move towards each other, and the first brush of their lips is soft, hesitant, because they’ve both been waiting so long and are scared to make the jump. But then Bucky turns his head and comes at Steve from another angle, sweeping his tongue into his mouth, and Steve gets in gear. He pulls Bucky towards him by the belt loops so their bodies are aligned from chest to knees, and Bucky takes the opportunity to wind one arm around his neck, the other coming up to tap lightly on Steve’s collarbone. They pull apart after a moment, breathless, and lean their foreheads against each other. There’s a lazy smile curving Steve’s lips, eyes closed, and Bucky has never seen him look so content. He wants more than anything to kiss him again, to never stop kissing him, but he knows that if he does, he’ll end up doing much more than kissing, and as much as he wants that, tomorrow is Clint and Natasha’s wedding. Tomorrow they’ll go and celebrate the love of their best friends in the world, and this new thing with Steve is exciting and overwhelming enough without adding sex into the mix.  
So, with considerable regret, he puts a little distance between himself and the man in front of him. Steve, without being told, seems to understand.   
“I’m goin’ home now, Stevie,” Bucky whispers, with a sigh. “But I’ll be thinkin’ about you all night,”  
Steve can only nod, breathless, and with one final peck to Steve’s lips, Bucky pulls away, and makes his way towards the door. 

That night, Bucky’s nightmares are filled with red and black, twisting and turning shapes grabbing for him in the darkness, but a pair of bright blue eyes, slim fingers on strong hands and solid arms pull him back, lie him on his back to breathe, to stare at a night sky painted blue and white with stars.

—

The day of the wedding arrives without fanfare, and the sun is shining high in the sky when Bucky rises. At first he can’t tell why everything feels different, and then he looks at his phone and sees a text from Steve, signed off with a million kisses, and he can practically feel his lips tingling. He feels a sort of whooshing in his stomach, like he's just been dropped a hundred feet without warning, but the sensation isn’t unpleasant—in fact, he relishes it. His fingers are itching to be on Steve’s skin, begging to map every inch of the body he’s been missing out on for the last seven months, and then he turns his head to the right and sees his suit bag hanging up. _Shit_ , he thinks, and frantically looks at his watch. The wedding is today, and he’s co-maid of honour (Natasha’s choice of title, not his and Steve’s) and he’s going to be late if he doesn’t hurry the fuck up.

He makes it to the city clerk’s office with minutes to spare. The rest of the group is already waiting on the front steps, and they all look him disapprovingly as he sprints up to the door. Natasha has invited Maria Hill, from her book club, and Pepper Potts, who… Well, Bucky isn’t quite sure how Natasha knows her, but they seem close enough and deadly enough that he’s afraid to ask. Maria raises an eyebrow at his red cheeks and the sweat on his forehead.  
“Nice of you to join us, Barnes,” she says, her voice low and sarcastic. He likes Maria, but he can’t help but think that there isn’t a single person on earth she really properly enjoys being around, especially him. He’s also never seen her smile. He makes a note to himself to ask Steve if Maria could possibly be an android. 

Steve gives him a winning smile as they head into the building. He looks fantastic in a dark navy suit, which emphasises his broad shoulders, and a red and white striped tie hanging at his neck. Bucky draws his eyes up and down his body and relishes in the way Steve looks at him, dark and hungry like he's trying to resist pushing Bucky against the wall and having his way with him right there. He takes the opportunity to squeeze Steve’s ass as he walks into the building in front of him, and is rewarded with Steve jumping, just the tiniest bit.   
Once they’ve collected their queue number, waited in the queue for thirty minutes, and had their number called out, the wedding begins in earnest. Natasha doesn’t walk down the aisle, because there is no aisle to walk down, but she does walk up a rather precarious set of stairs, and down a corridor with no windows. Clint has already seen her; he helped her get ready, because he’s surprisingly good with makeup—Natasha maintains that in another life, he could have been a celebrity makeup artist. Still, it doesn’t stop the tears that appear in his eyes as his fiancée stands before him. She takes both of hands in her own and brings them to her mouth, pressing her lips to his knuckles. The smile that curves her lips is quiet and calm, like the eye of a storm, like she can see no one in the world except the man in front of her.  
They are married quickly, and they don’t exchange vows. The engagement has been long enough without dragging out the actual wedding, and besides, it’s just a piece of paper. What matters most is what they say to each other at home, the way they love each other at work and outside of it, the way they look at each other when no one else is looking. They say ‘I do’, smiles splitting their faces, and as the officiant pronounces them husband and wife, Natasha raises her hands and signs “I love you”. Clint pulls her in for a bruising kiss and whispers _“я люблю тебя”_ right back at her. When they pull back, grinning, their guests cheer and whoop, and Bucky grabs a handful of paperclips and throws them like confetti. The officiant nearly throws them out for that.  
When everything is signed and squared away, the group exits the building and has a mini photoshoot in the bright afternoon sunlight. Steve, being the artist, is forced to take photo after photo of the couple, and Bucky stands by his side, looking at the pictures after he’s taken them. They’re really beautiful, with the sunlight hitting the couple just right; it gives them an almost ethereal glow. Bucky has never seen Natasha look so openly happy. Clint is looking at her like she hung the moon.

They make their way to the diner, where Peter and Peggy are holding down the fort. Angie, Peggy’s wife, who works the cash register, is sitting behind the counter, eating pie and reading out the horoscopes for a gaggle of teenage girls who are sitting by the door. Darcy has decided, in Steve’s absence, that she is going to wear her rollerskates to serve the food. Steve can only see this ending one of two ways, but everyone else looks so genuinely delighted by it that he decides to see how it plays out.   
They get a table near the back of the diner and order obnoxiously large plates of food just to see if they can make Darcy fall over. She almost does, once, but Wanda somehow manages to catch both her and the plate just in time, as though she has some sort of telekinetic powers of levitation. In celebration, Bucky doodles _‘Steve’s Hearty Impressive Eggs Look Delicious!’_ on a menu, and Steve smiles and presses a kiss to his shoulder.  
An hour later, Peggy and Peter (who is remarkably strong, weirdly) bring out a giant four tier wedding cake, covered in purple roses and red hourglasses. It’s kind of garish, honestly, but Clint and Natasha are goddamn delighted with it, and insist on cutting it _immediately._  
“So, Nat, will you be taking Clint’s name?” Bucky says, through a mouthful of cake (buttercream, which isn’t as horrible a thought to him as it once would have been), his eyes sparkling mischievously. Steve elbows him in the side, but in the same breath takes his hand, twines his fingers through Bucky’s, and rubs his thumb over the back of his hand. Clint nearly chokes with laughter at the question; Natasha just raises an eyebrow disapprovingly.  
“Hey, how about we mash our names together and both take that name?” Clint says, thoughtfully. Natasha, surprisingly, actually looks like she's considering it.  
“Romanarton?” She says, and Clint snorts. “Bromanoff?”  
“Bromanoff!” He exclaims, and high fives Sam excitedly. Natasha just rolls her eyes.

When they get into Odinson’s, they discover that not only has the place been cleaned, but there are silver glittery banners hung around the bar with _congratulations_ written in different languages. Steve throws an arm over Bucky’s shoulder as they walk through the room behind Clint and Natasha, who are being congratulated by Thor. The man is jovial as ever, and offers them a free round of drinks in celebration.  
“You’ve no idea how crazy you’re makin’ me in that suit, Buck,” Steve whispers in Bucky’s ear, and a hot, dark spike of lust shoots straight to his stomach. Steve presses a kiss to his cheek, menacingly chaste after the words he’d been whispering, and it takes everything Bucky has not to stick his tongue down his throat right there. He’s never felt so out of control around someone, never wanted them so badly he considers jumping them in public. Not even Brock, who Bucky had spent the first three weeks of their relationship in bed with, had been able to make Bucky weak at the knees with just a _look_.

The drinks flow freely after that, and it’s well into the early hours of the morning before they consider heading home. Maria and Pepper get a cab together, and Sam lives in the opposite direction, so the remaining four say goodbye before heading in the direction of their homes. Natasha climbs onto Clint’s back, and Steve hangs back, snaps a picture of their backs as Clint walks along under the street lights. Natasha’s dress glitters like starlight; her shoes dangle from one hand, the other wrapped around Clint’s shoulders.  
“That’s quite a photo,” Bucky murmurs. Steve looks at him with a weird expression on his face. It’s happy, very happy, but kind of incredulous too, like he can’t believe it’s Bucky he’s walking along with at 3am on a Sunday morning through the streets of New York. Bucky’s not quite sure what he did to deserve a man like Steve. Steve lets out a quiet, content sigh and takes Bucky’s hand, swinging their clasped hands between them as they walk.   
Clint insists upon carrying Natasha over the threshold when they reach the house, and Natasha, who is exhausted, doesn’t protest. She just winds her arms around his shoulders and buries her face in the crook of his neck, looking surprisingly small and vulnerable in his arms. The couple say goodnight and go inside, closing the door behind them. The last two walk along the road in a comfortable silence, occasionally pointing out things they see or interjecting with half-remembered anecdotes. They finally reach Bucky’s door, and he doesn’t want this perfect day to be over, doesn’t want to have to commit it to memory because his memory sucks, and, in all honesty, he would be content to relive this day for the rest of his life. He pulls his key out of his pocket and fiddles with it. Bucky is on the top step, Steve the one below him, and the chef is looking up at him with wide, adoring eyes.  
“You, uh, wanna come up?” Bucky says gruffly, rubbing the back of his neck with his metal hand. The cool metal feels wonderful on his overheated skin.  
“I’d better not,” Steve says, and the other man’s heart sinks with a familiar, sickening dread. But Steve is smiling, an encouraging look in his blue eyes. “I‘m kiss you goodnight, and if I come up, we’ll end up doing a lot more than kissing. I wanna take you on a proper date before that happens.”   
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Always the gentleman, Steve Rogers.” He smirks. “Tomorrow?”  
Steve nods enthusiastically. “Tomorrow.”  
He leans forward and presses his lips to Bucky’s, hard and purposeful. As he goes to pull away, Bucky grabs his tie and holds him there, and Steve gasps, delighted, into his mouth. They can only kiss for a few seconds, otherwise they’ll be in danger of making a spectacle of themselves in the middle of the street.   
“I’ll see you later, Buck,” Steve whispers, and kisses him once more, before pulling back and making his way home. Bucky lets himself into his flat and changes quickly. He drinks a large glass of water and lies face down on his bed, thinking about Steve. He manages to push down the overwhelming anxiety that encompasses his being, the encroaching feelings of unworthiness that curl around his heart, and tells himself over and over again like a mantra, _“I deserve this. I deserve to be happy”_ until he's beginning to believe it. He thinks that there’s no way he’ll be able to sleep, because his heart is racing a mile a minute and his mind is going just as fast, but soon enough, his eyes close and he drifts off.

Bucky texts Steve in the morning, saying ‘Steve’s Heard Intelligent Entities Loathe Dates’, and Steve sends him back the middle finger emoji, which surprises Bucky because he wasn’t sure Steve even knew how to use emojis. He feels strangely proud. That evening, Steve shows up at Bucky’s door the next evening at precisely 5.02pm, wearing a suit and carrying a giant bunch of buttercups. Bucky opens the door in just a towel because he had fallen asleep after his therapy session (it’s truly a blessing and a curse that all it takes for him to fall asleep is being horizontal) and had to scramble for a shower. As Bucky steps aside to let him in, Steve leans forward and brushes a soft kiss to his cheek. Bucky feels the spot his lips touched tingling when he pulls away.   
“I’ll, uh, go get dressed.” He says, awkwardly. “Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.”  
Steve beams and goes to put them in water in the kitchen. Bucky sprints through to the bedroom, guilt coursing through his system.

See, Bucky actually _hates_ buttercups, but he can’t tell Steve that because his hatred for buttercups is perennially tied up in his hatred for butter, and that’s another thing he’s lying about. Bucky hates buttercups because the kids on his block would hold them up under his chin and tell him the yellow reflection cast there meant he liked butter, but Bucky knew he didn’t like butter which meant that buttercups are _lying plants that lie_. It’s an oddly specific aversion to an otherwise harmless plant, but he still maintains that buttercups are the worst of all flowers. Not that he’ll be telling Steve that.

He dresses quickly and efficiently and ties his hair back, and Steve is just finishing up with the flowers when he comes out of the bedroom. Steve turns around and lets out a low whistle when he sees Bucky.  
“Damn, Buck,” He grins. “If I wasn’t already takin’ you out, I’d ask you all over again.”  
Bucky says nothing, just flushes and looks down at the ground, embarrassed, and takes the hand Steve is holding out to him.  
“Takin’ me somewhere special?” He says, locking the apartment door behind him.  
“Yeah, I know a place.” Steve replies, with a coy smile, and leads him down the street.

“We goin’ on a date in your own restaurant, Stevie?” Bucky grins as he sits down in his favourite seat in the diner. It’s right at the back, away from the windows, and is by far the most private seat in the place. When Bucky first started coming here on the regular, Clint used to put him there, and Bucky would spend hours chatting to the staff, savouring his meals and lusting after the chef. Not that now is any different.  
“Hey, that’s enough cheek from you, pal,” Steve replies. “Just remember, I’m paying.”   
Bucky rolls his eyes. “Such generosity,” he laughs. If he’s being honest, he’s glad Steve picked here. Anything else would feel like too much, too over the top for something they’re both already completely sure of—Bucky knows it’s both of them, because Steve’s eyes haven’t left his face the whole time he's been with him, and something unspoken and tender has taken up residence in his blue eyes. The diner is familiar and safe; the diner is _home_ , and it only feels right that the relationship should begin the same place their friendship blossomed. Darcy comes over as they sit down, still on her rollerskates, and they order a large blueberry pie to share. When Steve says it, they grin at each other, and Darcy rolls her eyes.  
“You guys are gross,” She mutters, and skates off to the kitchen to put their order in.  
“So, how’s the new recruit holding up?” Bucky asks, putting their menus to one side. They’ve been training Peter up to take over Natasha’s job for two weeks, because Natasha, when she decided to get married, put in for time off for the first time in six years to go to Budapest on her honeymoon. Steve was so baffled he almost forgot to approve it.  
“Christ, he’s so young, Buck.” Steve scrubs a hand down his face in despair. “Makes me feel like I'm about a hundred years old.”  
“Yeah, you look it,” Bucky says, nodding at him and his general physique with a raised eyebrow. Steve makes a sort of annoyed scrunched up face, and Bucky thinks it is absolutely _adorable_ , so he tells Steve as much. Steve makes the same face again, but tries to hide it. Bucky grabs his hand where it covers his face and pulls it onto the table, and then he and Steve just sit for a moment and look at each other.  
“So…” Bucky grins.  
“So…”  
“What do people talk about on first dates?”  
“I don’t know,” Steve says, running a hand over his chin. “It’s been a while. The weather, the last movie they saw, their pets?”  
Bucky bites his lip and watches the way Steve’s eyes drop to the movement. “Okay, let’s go with your pets. Tell me about them.”  
Around them, the diner is filling up with dinner guests, parents and couples and siblings and girl scout groups, and the chatter is comforting, cocooning them in a bubble of sound. Steve clears his throat, like he’s nervous. “I’ve always had cats, even when I was young. When I was a kid my best friend was this little stray tabby I found in my back yard.” He’s is smiling a quiet little smile as he talks, and Bucky doesn’t miss the way his entire world zeros in on just his voice, like a fantastic form of tunnel vision. A small huff of a laugh escapes Steve’s mouth, and Bucky watches his face twitch. “Funny story, actually,” Steve says, ducking his head. “She fell down in the water under a bridge as a kitten. Couldn’t get back out. Some other kid rescued her.”  
When Steve looks up, Bucky is frozen in place, staring at him with wide eyes, the metal hand which had been twitching going unnaturally still.   
“What did you say?” He eventually chokes out. Steve gives him a weird look.  
“My cat… she got rescued by some kid under a bridge.”  
“Did I-“ Bucky’s voice comes out kind of strangled, but he pushes on. “Did I ever tell you how I lost my arm?” Steve just shakes his head, frowning. Bucky takes a deep breath and scrubs his hand across the stubble on his chin. “So, when I was about eight, I was walking home from school, mindin’ my own business. I heard yellin’ and hollerin’ so I went to have a look-see at what at the fuss was about. Some skinny little punk was standin’ by the bridge, cryin’ about his cat, so I went over to help.” At this point, Steve is openly gaping at Bucky, his breath catching in his throat. “I climbed down under the bridge and swam out and got the cat, but then as I was getting out, something, I don’t know what, somethin’ in the water shifted and trapped my arm. They tried everything to get me out—pulling, leverage, even tried to slide my arm out with butter, but they didn’t have any luck.  
“By the time the services arrived, they couldn’t save it. They had to cut it off. Got my first prosthetic later that year. Had dinosaurs on it.” Bucky gives a weak smile, but Steve is still staring at him like he’s grown an extra head.  
“That was,” Steve swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “That was you?” His voice is trembling.   
“Yeah, that was me,” Bucky says. “I can’t believe that was you.” He shakes his head in disbelief.  
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were stuck.” Steve says, and its been twenty years but he actually sounds _hurt_ that Bucky didn’t trust him.  
“You were sick as a dog and it was October, Steve. I’d only met you twenty minutes and I knew you couldn’t stay outside.”  
Steve lets out a hard breath though his nose, and Bucky scratches his neck, awkwardly. He tries to lighten the mood, because the energy around them is charged and intense. “I hope that cat was worth it, Stevie.” He grins, and Steve seems startled out of his reverie, and gives a nervous laugh.  
“She was actually, uh. She was a therapy cat.” Steve says, with a strange sort of smile on his face. “She helped me when I was sick, which was pretty much all the time, kept me going when it was all getting too much. Couldn’t say I’d be here the same way without her, if I’m honest.” He says, sincerely, looking directly into Bucky’s eyes.  
“Well, that’s alright then,” Bucky laughs softly. He reaches across the table and grabs Steve’s hands. “That cat was obviously meant to bring us together.” They both smile at each other, Steve’s blue eyes crinkling and a soft sigh falling from his lips. “What happened to it, anyway?” Bucky says, thoughtfully.  
“I, uh.” Steve chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “I actually still have her. You remember Miracle, right?”  
“You’ve got to be fuckin’ joking, Steve,” Bucky sits back his seat, bringing a hand to his forehead in disbelief. “That cat is Satan incarnate!”  
“Hey, c’mon now…” Steve actually looks offended, and Bucky briefly thinks about holding back a little, but the memory of his torn up skin from the other night is too vivid.  
“I saved her life, Stevie. The least she could do is not scratch the shit out of me every time I could though the door!”  
“You _aggravate_ her!”  
“Yeah, cause she scratches the shit out of me!”  
They both sit back and stare at the other, and Bucky gives a small sigh.  
“I can sense this cat might be a bone of contention in our relationship.” He says, which coaxes a smile from Steve.  
“Think we can handle it?” He says, and though his tone is joking, Bucky can hear a note of uncertainty underneath it all, which makes his heart positively _ache_.   
“I’m with you ’til the end of the line, pal,” Bucky says, and Steve’s worried face softens. It’s at that moment their drink orders come out, expertly delivered by a rollerblading Darcy. As she skates away, they both pick up their drinks, and Steve holds out his glass for a toast.  
“To miracle cats,” He says, eyes twinkling with humour.  
“To finding each other again,” Bucky replies, with sincerity. He’s about to clink his glass against Steve’s when the other man pulls it back.  
“To forgiveness…” Steve says, meaningfully. Bucky’s eyes narrow.  
“I’m not forgiving the cat, Steve.” He says, and Steve shrugs and clinks his glass against Bucky’s.   
As Steve raises his glass to his lips and peers at him cheekily over the rim, Bucky feels something like love bloom in his chest, calm and quiet, like the ebb and flow of the tide. He chews on his lip, the corner of his mouth just turning up, and thinks, _this is the first day of the rest of my life._ He’s right.

—  
Steve kicks the door of his apartment shut behind him and slams Bucky into the wall. He attacks Bucky’s mouth with his own, and Bucky never thought it would be like this, so aggressive and rough and unrestrained, but Bucky’s not complaining because _damn,_ does it feel good. Steve grinds his hips into Bucky’s, hard, and all Bucky can do is twist his fingers in the lapels of Steve’s jacket and try not to let his knees buckle. Steve gives another forceful thrust, Bucky’s head falls back against the wall and he stares at the ceiling, counts the swirls painted into the plaster in an attempt to stave off his orgasm, mouth tipped open and chest heaving as Steve’s hips move against his. Jesus, they’ve only been at this thirty seconds, and Bucky is already halfway to coming, but he’s not surprised in the slightest because he’s had the thrum of humming energy under his skin for about two weeks now and he's just about exploding with it.  
Steve’s whispering things in his ear, _scandalous_ things which would make a weaker man than Bucky blush to the tips of his hair. But Bucky just groans, loud and long, and his hips jerk forward, and he's rewarded with Steve muttering a muffled, “Fuck,” into his neck and clamping his teeth over his pulse point.  
Bucky feels overwhelmed, hot and sticky like his skin is two sizes two small, and it’s like heaven and hell wrapped up in one sinful package. Steve is _gorgeous_ like this, with that flush that he’s always loved blooming on his skin, his forehead glistening and his big hands (huge hands, with long, thin fingers. Bucky’s _noticed_ ) squeezing Bucky’s hips in time with his thrusts. Bucky almost suggests they move this to the bedroom, almost says that maybe their first time shouldn’t be against the wall fully clothed after their first date, but that thought dies a death in his throat when Steve moves one hand round to grab his ass, and runs a finger down the seam of his pants. All Bucky can do is hook his fingers into Steve’s belt and pull him closer, and then they’re rubbing off against each other, and all talking, all sound, all thinking stops, and it’s just their bodies moving against each other on instinct. Bucky’s never felt so good.  
It’s all over too quickly when Steve’s hips move faster, and Bucky comes without warning, slamming his hand against the wall, and Steve follows him over the edge soon after. They don’t move in the aftermath, just lean against each other and catch their breath, heaving out breathy laughs into the other’s neck.  
“That was…” Steve murmurs, running his fingers through the hair at the base of Bucky’s neck, where it’s falling out of his bun and beginning to curl up.  
“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, lips moving against Steve’s skin. “You ready to go again?”  
“Hah,” Steve huffs. “I can do this all day.”   
Bucky rests his forehead against Steve’s, matching his breathing to his. Steve’s eyes are so big up close, wide and blue and sincere, and the moment is intense, too close for comfort, so Bucky gives a sudden snort and says, _‘Steve’s Heart Invites Elderly-Loving Dong’_ , with a cheeky wink. Steve gives a huge groan and drops his head on Bucky’s shoulder.  
“Seriously?” He says, pained. “I’m not even old! There’s nothing elderly for your dong to love!”  
Bucky just laughs and pulls him in for another kiss.


	5. Steve’s Heart Invokes Everlasting Luminous Days (Epilogue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter in this epic, ridiculous nonsense piece. I hope you have enjoyed this rollercoaster as much as I enjoyed writing it!!!

The cat dies in her sleep two weeks after Bucky moves into Steve’s apartment. Steve is devastated, in a way that Bucky has never seen him before, but he pulls through it, because he has Bucky there to comfort him. In a weird way, it’s almost like the cat was holding on until Bucky came into his life again.  
Their lives become even more interwoven than ever before, in the best possible way. Bucky’s leather jacket hangs over the top of Steve’s easel in the living room. Steve’s chef’s aprons are next to Bucky’s scrubs in the wardrobe. Pictures of their families, their friends, each other, are framed and scattered about the apartment, like they’ve been in each other’s lives forever. Steve paints a picture of Miracle after she dies, and they hang the portrait above her favourite spot in the living room. Bucky watches as Steve smiles wistfully every time he passes it.

Bucky’s nightmares don’t stop, but they lessen considerably, now that he doesn’t have to sleep alone. The images are still there, the colours and the sounds and the horrible feeling of claustrophobia, but he isn’t afraid to go to sleep anymore, because he has someone to pull him out of it when he needs them to. 

There are fights, of course. Bucky’s feelings of inadequacy and unworthiness are incomprehensible to Steve, who has never seen Bucky as anything less than perfect. They both work too much, and bring that work home with them, and too many nights are spent with Steve frantically trying a new recipe and Bucky stewing on the couch because one of his kids isn’t doing so great. They shout and yell and say things they don’t mean and go to bed angry, despite what Natasha always tells them. But in the morning they’ve usually forgotten, or their anger has abated, and they can talk calmly. Bucky’s sure Dr Foster would be proud of the way he’s learned to communicate with those around him, with the family he’s found and gathered.

Soon enough, Bucky meets the rest of Steve’s extended family. His mother, Sarah, bakes him a blueberry pie and is delightfully scandalised when he gets up to do the dishes. His aunts and uncles pinch his cheeks and tell him he’s a lovely young gentleman, and a few of Steve’s cousins remember him from high school, when he played their school at lacrosse. They find his story about knocking Gabe’s teeth out hilarious, and declare him to be an honorary Rogers immediately. Steve just watches as one of the younger cousins runs straight up to Bucky and barrels him right over onto the floor, and, though he’d never admit it, may or may not encourage the rest of the kids to pile on. Bucky looks up at him from under the mountain of kids, looking kind of pained, but also really happy. He’s kind of overwhelmed at their kindness, because his only living family is his sister, and it’s been just the two of them for going on ten years now.

Rebecca loves Steve to pieces. He doesn’t treat her like a kid, despite the fact that, to Bucky, she quite clearly is. “I’m barely even a teenager anymore, Buck,” she says to that, which he steadfastly ignores. Steve teaches her to paint, to cook, to push all of Bucky’s buttons she hadn’t figured out growing up, and having the two of them around the house is like having two little Satans personally sitting on his shoulders annoying the hell out of him. But he can’t complain, because he never laughs more than when he’s sitting on his couch, Steve on one side, Rebecca tucked under his arm on the other, a shitty movie playing on the TV for them to make fun of—their favourite is _Ricki and the Flash._

—

It takes Steve nearly seven years to find out Bucky doesn’t _actually_ like butter, and it’s purely an accident caused by a fit of rage.   
“God _dammit_ ,” Bucky exclaims, throwing the food selections down onto the table. They’re planning their wedding over Steve’s lunch break at the diner, and so far, everything about it has been frustrating. He’s almost jealous of Clint and Natasha for their registry office plan. “Why is every entree covered in butter and garlic, Steve. I _hate_ butter, I fucking hate it!”  
He realises what he’s said as soon as the words come out of his mouth, and he claps both his hands, metal and flesh, over his lips. Steve looks up slowly, frowning.  
“What?” He says, low and quiet and ever so slightly menacing. Natasha’s obviously been teaching him a thing or two. Bucky stumbles over his words, mind racing as he tries to come up with an excuse. He comes up blank.  
“I’ve been livin’ a fuckin’ lie, Steve,” He eventually says. He decides to just go for broke and tell his fiancé, because he’s kept it to himself long enough. “That day we met, I wasn’t coming in to ask for more butter. I was coming to yell at you cause you kept putting it on. And then I saw you, and you were so goddamn _gorgeous_ and I got all tongue tied, and I couldn’t tell you I hated the butter. I just couldn’t.” Bucky drops his gaze to the table and fiddles with his hands. He hears a weird sound and looks up, and Steve is red in the face, stifling a laugh into his palm.  
“Buck, I don’t like butter that much either.” He says, wiping tears from his eyelids. “Natasha was the one who kept putting the butter on, I just left her to it!”   
“No…” Bucky says, mouth falling open. “That’s… Goddamn, I’m going to kill her!” But Bucky is grinning from ear to ear as he watches Steve fall apart laughing in front of him. He feels good now that everything is out in the open.  
“Imagine how much we could have saved on butter in the last seven years.” Steve says when he finally catches his breath. “We could have paid for this entire wedding with the money we could have saved on butter!”   
Bucky just sort of half shrugs. “Steve, I don’t think you understand how hot you are. You short-circuited my goddamn brain when I saw you.”  
“I can’t believe you only told me you liked my pancakes cause you thought I was hot.” Steve pouts, mostly to hide the blush that’s creeping across his cheeks.  
“Hey, I didn’t—“  
“You were comin’ to _complain_ , and instead told me they were the best pancakes you’d ever eaten!” Steve interrupts, quite reasonably and Bucky scowls.  
“So you assumed they were the best pancakes I’d ever eaten because of the _butter_?” Bucky says, sceptically. “Steve, have some confidence in your abilities.”  
“As much as it may surprise you, Bucky, I don’t really get a lot of people strong arming their way into my kitchen to yell about butter.” Steve replies, a slightly incredulous smile gracing his features. “Forgive me for being confused.”  
Bucky lets out a huff and drops his face into his palms. “Seven fuckin’ years, Stevie. How did we get here?” He says, his voice muffled. “How the hell?”  
“I know, Buck,” Steve says, soothingly, running his fingers through his partner’s hair. He turns his head and catches Angie’s eye as she walks by, who looks at him in amused sympathy.   
“You still love me, right?” Bucky says from behind his hands. He’s joking, but there’s an undercurrent of uncertainty that makes Steve’s heart clench.   
“You know, surprisingly, you liking butter was never really a factor in why I fell in love with you.” Steve replies, and though he’s being sarcastic, he also tries for halfway sincere. Bucky looks up, right into his eyes, and seems to find what he needs there. He nods, once, twice, and then leans forward to kiss Steve. He murmurs ‘I love you’ against his lips, and Steve smiles.

From the other side of the diner, Natasha and Clint watch the scene. Clint gives a frustrated huff and pulls out his wallet, fishing out a twenty which Natasha tucks into her bra, grinning.  
“I was so close,” Clint says, scowling. “I said Steve would find out on their honeymoon. That’s _so close_.”  
“But no cigar,” Natasha says, grinning. She kisses his cheek and heads back to the kitchen, and Clint watches her walk away with a frustrated, loving expression. 

—

The banner Bucky put up seven years ago, declaring Steve’s love for Independence, still hangs in the diner. It’s where everyone who comes to the diner—and people are coming from far and wide to read the graffitied menus, see the sign, and get a taste of the best pancakes in New York—pose for pictures which then go on Facebook. Everyone is coming up with their own acronyms for S.H.I.E.L.D. and Bucky is delighted because it gives him so much ammunition. All Steve can do is try and avoid it where he can.  
The buttercups Steve brought him on their first date go in the bin after a week and a half, but Bucky’s life is filled with their image. Steve, the artist, paints him canvas after canvas of fields of yellow flowers, and Bucky hangs them all up in their apartment. Somehow, inexplicably, yellow becomes his favourite colour, even though all it used to make him think of was that god-awful pool of butter swimming on his plate. But now it makes him think of the flower portraits Steve gives him, the colour of Steve’s hair, the cushions on Steve’s couch. It makes him think of _Steve_ , and by God, does Bucky love Steve.   
And maybe, just maybe, Bucky doesn’t hate butter _that_ much anymore. Now, it doesn’t make him think of bridges and cats and cold steel; it reminds him of a warm diner and good friends, of the man he loves more than anything in the world. It reminds him of home.  
Bucky tells Steve this on the plane back from their honeymoon, and Steve beams at him so hard Bucky thinks he might burst. The first place they stop when they get out of the airport is the diner, and the two of them sit at the counter and ask for Natasha. She comes out, eyebrow raised, and narrows her eyes when they ask her for pancakes, the way she used to make them, but gives a nod and heads back into the kitchen. A few minutes later, she comes out carrying a large plater stacked high with pancakes, and absolutely drowning in butter. She gives them a grin, like she knows what’s coming, but Steve and Bucky just thank her, smile widely, and dig in.


End file.
